The first words are the hardest

After a solid month of procrastinating, this week I finally started writing my book about running around Ireland

I started writing my book this week. It may only have been a few thousand scratchy words that may yet all end up on the cutting room floor, but it feels good to have actually started.

The process of putting together an entire book that works as a coherent whole, complete with narrative drive, fluid writing, and a feeling that it is something worthwhile, that reading it will be time well spent, is still a bit of a mystery to me, even as I start out on my fourth book. 

Where on earth should I start? Should I rewind back to the six-day race? Or should I start by laying out the plan? Or go for a dropped intro, opening the book with me struggling, say, through the wilds of Connemara?

I decided to start at the beginning of the run. Day one, in Dublin, setting off from the Ha’Penny Bridge. That may not end up being the actual start of the book, but I figured that I would have to write about that at some point, so I might as well get that down. 

Then - the thinking goes - as I start writing, through the process of words appearing on the screen, rather than through the process of staring at a blank page, thoughts and ideas will start manifesting, swirling, questions will arise that need answers, and a sense of the pace, the shape, the narrative will begin to form.