Wednesday, September 12, 2012


I’m leaving tomorrow to run a relay race that starts in San Francisco and ends in Napa. Whoa, you say, you must be quite a runner. Not really. Extremely amateur. It’s a relay, so our team has twelve people and we all take turns. At the end, we drink wine.

Someone asked me yesterday which I like better, running or writing. I thought: Here is a person who has never put on a pair of running shoes. Because it is torture, really, a cruel mistress who punishes you if you’ve neglected her and turns her back when you’re in pain. Running is a love/hate endeavor and I think most runners would agree with that.

And I thought about these two activities and the ways they’re alike. Both are difficult most of the time and effortless on rare, sparkling occasions we learn to live for. Both require determined effort and mostly, both have to be done alone. Without cheers, without empathy, without quick rewards.

This race will be an exception to that rule. We’ll run together, with encouragement and laughs along the way, a shiny medal and a cold glass of something at the end. And wouldn’t it be great if we had some sort of writing event, just for fun, that ended with claps on the back and red, grinning faces? Actually, that sounds weird but you get the idea.


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"As soon as we express something, we devalue it strangely. We believe ourselves to have dived down into the depths of the abyss, and when we once again reach the surface, the drops of water on our pale fingertips no longer resemble the ocean from which they came...Nevertheless, the treasure shimmers in the darkness unchanged." ---Franz Kafka