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I turn 60 in a few weeks. Fifty leveled me, making me realize that I was definitely near or past the halfway mark of this life. I spent that day in my office, a little stunned. Couldn't write. Went to get a haircut. The barber asked if I wanted a beer, which is always a great thing for any barber to suggest. So I had a Budweiser, because that's all he had, which only made me more sad, because drinking a warm Bud in a barber chair on your 50th is not the sort of celebrating that normally goes with a birthday. But it must have been significant because here we are, ten years later, and I still remember that can of beer.
Ten years ago, the first Killing book was finished but not yet published. My running book had been in stores three weeks and selling just ok. To Be a Runner was a labor of love, so I had hopes for huge sales, but in the end it was one of those books I had to write before I die — every author has a list like that. So, to put the words on page and see it in print would have to be enough.
Nobody had any idea the Killing books would take off. Killing Lincoln was a one-off, a fun book to write and research but in my wildest dreams I never imagined it would sell millions of copies and spawn ten more Killing books. That's right: ten. We're working on book eleven in the series right now. People ask if I mind my name on the cover being in a smaller font than my famous co-author’s. Not for a second. I get to write books for a living, which is enough. That, and the fact that the check cashes just the same, big font or little font.
The past ten years saw a lot of life changes, mostly because of the Killing books. The uncertain future I pondered that day in the barber chair turned into ten years of learning how to be a better writer. When I finally returned to solo work last year with Taking Paris (due in stores September 7), I took all those lessons about tightening a narrative that I learned working with Bill and wrote fearlessly. It's the best thing I've ever written on my own.
I'm more comfortable in my own skin as I turn 60. Sometimes I wonder where the angry young man went to, or how I have become so fond of being positive. I laugh a lot more, but I still call “Badlands” my anthem.
I also lost my mom a few years ago, the woman who was my biggest fan and most ardent critic. I'm a writer because she taught me that reading is one of the best ways to fill your time, but also because she and I fought some very bitter battles. Our issues were never completely resolved so I found my voice as a writer to put my rage, fears, hopes, and dreams on paper. I don't want to say I was lost when she passed, and I am glad I had the chance to speak my piece while she could still hear me, but I feel like I am only able to see the best in her now that she is gone. We were too much alike. All I could hear was her criticism. The small bony hands of her final days could pack a wallop or pull out a chunk of hair back in her prime, and even in those final moments when they could not hurt me I still feared them. Only now can I remember the many ways in which she told me she loved me — all spoken with the Boston accent of her youth, in a no-nonsense style that was fond in its own way.
I surprised myself recently by realizing that I am eager to take this wonderful life I have lived to a new level: more travel, pushing my limits as a writer, being a better coach (I have realized I'm in the coaching business for the long haul), laughing more, connecting with Calene in a deeper and more profound manner as we grow old together. It really is a wonderful life. It's funny how a long series of mistakes, false starts, and moments of quiet shame come together to blend with the love that we find each day to form this thing we call happiness.
I also realized I need a new challenge. I'm not coasting, but I want to do something that feels really hard. So I'm running the Boston Marathon. My mom loved that race. I'm not doing it for her, I'm doing it for me, but she's definitely a vital part of Team Marty. I've run Boston before, way back on the 100th anniversary in 1996. I'm not the runner I was back then, and it's been thirteen years since my last marathon, but I feel drawn to do Boston in particular as a way to jump start my 60's. The incomparable Boston marathon champion Des Linden is my coach for all this. I need someone to be accountable to, and I need someone to kick my ass. So thank you, Des. I have weight to lose, miles to run, and a whispering inner voice telling me I still have unfinished business with my mom.
A few nights ago, I dreamed that I was running effortlessly on a green carpet of rolling grass. Running is not like that for me right now. I am slow and every step feels like a victory for having taken it. Nothing effortless at all. But this path I am taking has a purpose all its own, and I can guarantee one and all I will not be drinking warm Bud in a barber chair on my 60th birthday.