TBAR

TBAR

I've been asked to write a few new essays for an April 2019 paperback edition of To Be A Runner. I'm flattered by the offer. TBAR sold well in its initial release, but didn't enjoy the robust sales of the how-to running books, so I was always hoping for a second chance.

PURPOSE

PURPOSE

My story is simple: guy takes seven years to finish college, guy marries the woman of his dreams, gets a button-down corporate job, early excitement about said corporate job turns to boredom and disillusionment, guy starts writing tiny articles in running magazines, guy quits corporate job and becomes a full time writer. No plan. No genius. Lots of prayers

PERSPECTIVE

PERSPECTIVE

The season is over. I've got four weeks to see the world and get restored before we start up again with track season. The kids need a break from me, and I from them. . . . The lack of something to fill my afternoon has also made me more thoughtful. Events have precipitated this new mindfulness.

THE LEGAL PAD

THE LEGAL PAD

As stress reducers go, you would think that something so simple as planning the day wouldn't make much difference. But there are so many mornings I wake up overwhelmed. Before my feet even hit the floor I feel the burden of juggling all the things I want to do, need to do, and would maybe like to squeeze in. Sometimes, when things are really hot, all that juggling leads to a feeling of being frantic. Rather than get the whole mental list of activities accomplished that day, I just shut down. The governor has been reached and the machine dials it all the way back.

QUARTER CENTURY

QUARTER CENTURY

When I was six I told my mother I wanted to be a writer. "Don't be silly," she told me. "Writers don't make any money."My Mom denies every saying this, but I remember the moment quite well. It was the well-intentioned advice of a mother who doesn't want her son to know poverty and rejection.

GROWING UP

GROWING UP

I don't know what triggered the memory, but the other day I was suddenly overcome with a wash of humiliation. Sometime in my early twenties, at that point in the wilderness years where I was so deep in the woods that I couldn't remember which way I came in and couldn't possibly see a way out, I decided that the most logical way to fix things was to . . . wait for it: join the French Foreign Legion.

A LETTER TO MY TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD SELF

A LETTER TO MY TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD SELF

Calm down. Trust yourself. You've just met the girl of your dreams and you know it. Be your best. Let's not screw this one up. OK?That means you need to finally finish college. You keep dancing around the finale because you don't know what you want to do with the rest of your life. You say that's the purist in you talking, but it's fear.