Last Thursday after a day at the office that pleasantly ended with a surprise invitation to run with a co-worker around Lake Merrit, I trundled home on my bike, choked down a quick dinner with my sons and husband, fed the dogs, and hopped back on my bike to pedal my way to a 7pm memoir writing class. The class gathered in a snug little office with ten of us packed around a table with pens, notebooks and/or laptops out at the ready. The group ranged in age (speculatively) from mid-thirties to early-seventies. I suppose memoirs are infrequently written by those still making memories. As people introduced themselves, and later as people commented on an excerpt we’d read in class, it became evident that there were several professional writers in the group. Internally, I cringed.
I am a writer in much the same way that I am a runner. I do “it”, so I suppose I can call myself a “it-er,” but not particularly well, calling it amateur would be generous.
I started running a couple of years earlier, and by that, I mean wearing running shoes, compression everything, and moving forward at a pace slightly faster than the average postal carrier. I began after being prodded by a friend as I was in a drowning depression two summers ago. It’s fairly easy to pose as a runner if you have enough money to enter races. The Bay Area is overflowing with races: San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley all have marathons and half marathons, and here’s where I come in: 5Ks. All you have to do is pay an outrageous entry fee, get your stylish tech race shirt, and cross the finish line to get your bling: a medal. Additionally, you can sign up for “challenges” to acquire an additional medal for completing a series of races. The Across the Bay challenge, for instance, includes the San Jose 408K, the Marin/SF 415K, and the East Bay’s Let’s Go 510K. Run them all and you get four medals for the price of three! I’ve run all of these races in some capacity: usually 5Ks, a couple 8Ks, a few 10Ks and one 12K. I’m planning to make a wind-chime from my medals. All of this is a long aside to say that with some money and a little effort you can appear to be a completely accomplished runner.
In the world of self-publishing and word-press, writing probably has a similar entry fee, but the difference is this: you tell someone you are a runner, they might ask, “Oh, any races?” You can report your littany of races and even reveal the running shirt beneath your sweater, but the person won’t actually come to watch you run; they won’t judge the quality of your stride and the quickness of your pace. Tell someone you are a writer, on the other hand, there’s a chance they might actually try to read what you’ve written, especially if it’s a Google and click away.
Surprisingly, I did not excuse myself at the midbreak before the writing exercise to streak home, log onto my computer, and cancel my seat in the class. I can safely blame this on the fact that the class instructor is a friend of mine. Guilt: it is a mighty thing. So, I guess I will have to treat this like a Pilates class. Get over the embarrassment of being the most out of shape body in the room and just get in there and stretch some muscles. I can promise you that I’m going to be sore.