Pretend you are running the New York Marathon. You vomit twice (which was sort of embarrassing, but nothing like the runner you saw pulling down his shorts and defecating in the middle of the street because he lost control of his bowels). You summon every muscle, nerve, and sinew to work harder than they ever have before. You curse yourself for not training harder, for eating at The Cheesecake Factory two days before the race, for wearing Nikes and not splurging for the specially-fitted New Balance running shoes that would have cleared out your checking account.
Now your left foot is wet with broken blisters and alarmingly numb. Your right knee is so swollen and veiny that is looks like a cantaloupe is growing beneath your skin. Your family is here with posters, cheering you on. There are even strangers lined-up, shouting that you can do it. These happy people with their silly posters make you believe in everything good, and you use that good to keep going. It actually works. You're exhilarated for the next few miles, and then you are in pain, and then that pain grows into fear, and you try to pummel back that fear, but you know you are losing the fight.
You are weak and you want to quit.
You look up at the blue sky and ask God for help. You imagine yourself being pulled along by divine golden strings. You actually see this. You are now officially hallucinating. You recite Rudyard Kipling’s “If” to yourself over and over, and then that gives way to the Lord’s Prayer. And then you start to mouth Duran Duran’s “Rio.” You do anything to keep your mind off the asphalt and out of your burning lungs.
And then after all these blurry miles have chaffed into a very distant past, you see the finish line.
You just keep putting one foot in front of the other. You can do this. You see a Nike logo. Just do it. You stumble across. You collapse. You are exhausted and happy. Your family is hugging you and splashing water on you. You are smiling a hard won smile, and you can feel the sunshine beaming from your teeth.
Then some stranger comes up to you. This stranger is sort of flabby and pale. This non-running stranger wears Dockers and is smoking a cigarette. Then out of nowhere, the stranger puts his cigarette out on your sweaty arm. You pull away, but before you can react, he backhands you across the face. The red hand print swells and you hold your cheek.
You explode.
But your family and friends hold you back while the non-running stranger makes his getaway. They tell you that it's not worth the fight. Your brother has to put you in a full-nelson to restrain you.
This is what it feels like to write a novel and then get a snarky review. Just in case you were wondering.
