Eulogy to a book that has not yet died

I’m writing a book.

There. I said it.

I have quit my secure and sufficiently well-paid job as a teacher to write a book.

Sounds aspirational, right?

Romantic, even.

And it is. By god it is. If I can do the work.

But also irresponsible, unhinged, idealistic…

To be perfectly honest, I haven’t even begun to do the kind of financial calculations a functioning, responsible adult with a family to support should have done. Albeit that is a kind of calculated recklessness. (I didn’t want to be discouraged from something I wanted to do by something as dumb as money or being sensible.)

I’m elated and terrified in equal measure, and not completely sure where to begin.

The problem is, I’ve been carried on a warm current of romanticism to this stage (arguably, all my life) and now it’s time to do the actual work.

It’s a bit like getting the Christmas present you’ve diligently added to your list every year, then being struck catatonic when you’re finally presented with it.

It’s a book about running, with one exceptional runner as the central character. Some of you will know him, some not. But everyone should.

It’s a story about peak experiences. It’s about landscape, place and connection. It’s about astounding feats of endurance, speed and strength. It’s about focus and drive, and how greatness might occur as a byproduct of love, dedication and humility.

I don’t mean to be coy by not telling you exactly who it’s about. It’s just that I’ve told enough people face-to-face to feel a mounting pressure, and I’d rather not add to that here. It’ll be revealed soon enough, and I’d hope to publish excerpts along the way, as well as snippets of my joy and anguish during the process.

The goal of the book is more or less the same as what I’ve sometimes tried to accomplish here, to communicate the purity and joy of running. To celebrate the simple beauty of the thing, and to capture the feelings and emotion of just going for a run. To show how this simple act has the capacity to change worlds. The difference between being a bug on a leaf, and being the tree itself.

But there are endless questions at this stage.

Do I have the discipline to research and write something of this scope?

Can I obsess over one thing for an entire year?

Can I keep my various addictions and vices in check to do the work?

Is the fact I’ve been considering remortgaging to help me do this completely irresponsible, or a workable short-term solution?

What does eighty-thousand words even look like?

And, how do you start? (I mean, I’ve been trying to start yoga for ten years now, and I still haven’t got beyond Googling “yoga for beginners” once every six months.)

All valid questions.

Fucked if I have the answers.

The flip side, of course, is there’s nothing I want to do more right now. To produce work I can be proud of. Something tangible. Look, a book. There, literally, in black and white.

But there’s a long way between saying I’m writing a book, holding a contract to do so, and actually doing it. Of course I’ve worked to get to this stage. No-one’s handed me this opportunity. It’s me that’s chased it. But I sense that all of it will be crushed to insignificance under the weight of what’s to come.

But I will throw my head, shoulders and heart into creating this book. I know something like this can’t come for free, not in the way I imagine it. I will be forced to abandon things that are important to me, or at least leave them to one side. But it’s all in service of a clear purpose. And that’s enough.

I’ve essentially gambled short term poverty for long term satisfaction. I could have entered another school year, been allocated another set of classes, and gone through the same rhythms and routines as the previous seventeen years of teaching. But in ten year’s time, would I be able to separate the next school year from all the others? Probably not.

More importantly, I’d like my boys (Cole, 7 and Nathan, 6) to know their dad did something other than just another year of teaching. That’s not to demean the importance of that job, but just in recognition of the fact that I’m just a cog in that school, a part that can be replaced without too much disruption. I already have been.

And really, what I realised today is that I have everything I need at hand to do this. The right environment, the knowledge and ideas, the time and space. All the opportunity in the world to do this one thing. The only limiting factor is me.

I will need to immerse myself in running again, like I haven’t for quite a while, and I’m looking forward to recapturing some of the joy of this. Perhaps trapping some of that initial awe so that others might know it, too.

I hope creating a book is just like a really long run. Start at the beginning. Toe the line and don’t think about the finish. Just focus on the next step, the next waypoint.

And if it comes off like I think it can, it will be something I can finally pin my identity to. I will be able to say: this is the work I have done, and within it is how I see the world and what I feel is important. 

And that, perhaps, is what I’ve always been looking for.

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