Marathons

The word’s been on my mind a lot recently, in a variety of contexts. 

The first is that my fellow Femme Fatale, writer, and friend Elaine Viets has begun a marathon of her own.  Having suffered a stroke last week, Elaine is doing much better now: she’s out of her medically induced coma, she’s off the ventilator, and she’s talking a little, even showing some of her trademark sense of humor.  This is amazing progress, but exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from Elaine.  She’ll have a long way to go, but for now, her friends are ecstatic about the progress she’s making.  You can check updates on her progress here.   

The last time a lot of us saw Elaine was at the Virginia Festival of the books, where she looked fantastic, was full of her special brand of wit, and generally was having a good time.  Her character tells us that her recovery will continue to be amazing, but still: a marathon.  Elaine’s got a book coming out May 1, and she won’t be able to tour to support it.  If you’re a fan, a friend, or a mystery lover, keep Murder with Reservations in mind when you hit the bookstores.  And please keep the good vibes heading toward Elaine and Don.

The 111th Boston Marathon ran this week.   If you’ve seen the weather at all, you’ll know that it’s been a week of hideous rain and wind.  A lot of trees and branches went down, and a lot of towns near us were flooded; they cancelled the traditional reenactments of the Battle of Lexington and Concord because they were afraid the reenactors lying “dead” in the mud would become hypothermic.  But close to 24,000 runners started and more than 20,000 finished the Marathon anyway.  This impresses the stuffing out of me.  I once ran a 5K just to see if I could.  It wasn’t pretty.  The folks running the 10K beat me, but I finished.  It was tedious, and the thought of running 26 + miles on a nice day shocks me (I mean, evolutionarily speaking, why run all that way if something is after you?  Why not climb a tree, invent a spear, yell real loud?). The fact that these folks did it in a Nor’easter is nothing short of astonishing. 

I went to a movie for the first time in a while (the last one was Casino Royale—see the Femmes’ blog for my take on that).  It was Frank Miller’s 300. Not for the faint of heart, not great history, but fun, in a decent-fight-scenes-with-loads-of-eye-candy sort of way. Daisy Wenham in Achaean Speedos:  woof.  They also mention the Battle of Marathon, from which we take the word.

Just having finished a book, I will say it again:  writing a novel is a marathon.  A lot of people tell me that they start a lot of things, but never finish them.  That’s hard to hear, because it sounds like they have the impetus, but don’t know how to pace themselves (or don’t have a story that makes them want to finish or don’t understand that it’s bloody hard work or 100 other things).  It’s a long slog, a battle against yourself, against time, and yes, against the odds. 

I was considering all these serious things, when I found a recipe for “Kitty Litter Cake.”  I have encountered the “Bucket of Worms” cake (a present from a group of fifth graders for an archaeology talk), but “Kitty Litter Cake” takes the concept to a whole new level.  When I got over my shock, I laughed out loud.  It’s gross, it’s funny, the sort of thing where you wonder who first dared execute the concept…and why?  I mean, as someone who’s sifted her share of cat litter, there’s nothing remotely appetizing about it. 

And why Kitty Litter Cake here, amidst the references to personal struggles, battle, feats of athleticism, and writing?  Because metaphorical marathons go better with metaphorical cake, something that will get you to put that next foot in front of the other, the mental margarita that leaves you ready to get back to the job, the person who says, ‘come on, you can do just a little more.”