I’m a regular, although mediocre, runner of marathons. I attempt to do one a year, and as a result have a drawer which clinks like a pirate’s treasure trove every time I open it because it conceals my small stash of medals (long distance running being an admirably egalitarian sport, even the last to arrive gets one). However I hate running marathons. Hanging about waiting for one to start, talking with the other runners and stretching your well-rested legs, is a lot of fun, but as soon as the pistol goes off and the pounding starts, it’s just a question of suffering and endurance. However, I do like knowing I can run one, which is why I put myself through it all. And, it’s true, there’s a brief burst of pleasure and pride when you cross the finishing line, but it almost immediately fades because you look up at the big digital clock, work out your running time, and realise that if you had just pushed a little harder, you could have done it a minute or two (or even five) faster.
Well, finishing the first draft of a novel feels much the same. I laid down my pen (if only – in truth, I let my tired fingers slip from the keyboard of my PC) yesterday evening, having written the last few words of the first version of the new Franck Guerin book. I’m glad that bit is behind me, and that I have 95 000 words down on paper (OK, encoded in bytes on my hard drive) which I can subsequently go back to and knock into shape. However, there’s no great sense of triumph, since I suspect it’s not as good as it should be, and previous experience has taught me that it takes longer to go from a first draft to a publishable version, than from nothing to that first draft.
This is when I turn to my hardy panel of heroic first readers, who will tear through the manuscript (on paper, otherwise their eyes would never forgive me) and tell me where it’s unconvincing or over-written or under-nourished or deadly dull. And then it’ll be back to work, but at least this time I should be pruning and replanting rather than facing a bare patch of earth.