I rocked the Seattle Marathon. I ran 26.2 miles in 5 hours, 2 minutes and 5 seconds — faster than I had ever run that distance in my life. I’ve heard only one percent of one percent of the world’s population will ever run a marathon, and now I’ve run three. That is a success.

My regular readers are probably confused. About a week ago I wrote a post that began, “I blew the marathon.” But the concept of failure is pretty subjective in the area of personal goals, isn’t it? I mean, if I keep running and working and trying really hard but never qualify for the Boston Marathon, would I have to put “She was a nice lady but didn’t ever make it to Boston, so you decide…” on my epitaph?

My point here is that no one is living or dying because of my marathon time. I’m the only one interested in interpreting it as a success or failure, improvement or slip. People are interested in the time or the event because they like me, perhaps, but I’m not the only American running in an international competition, with the country’s collective self-esteem riding on my shoulders. I’m trying to come to the same conclusions about my writing.

A few weeks ago a literary agent told me my first book should be on an intensely personal topic about which I have unintentional expertise. “When you write that one,” he said, “We can get you on The Today Show.” Ooohhhhh….. was coffee across the couch from Matt Lauer far behind?!? I was all aflutter. And this book will help people, I reasoned. I need to write this book — to give others the strength to overcome their own adversity. It’s my duty! It’s my calling! It’s Matt Lauer!

I dived headlong into book plans, mapping out a strategy to put together a book proposal that would knock socks off. The first step was to get more clips in this particular subject area, so that’s where the essay came from. I asked for help with a critique, and five generous souls volunteered.

Ack! Ugh! When I saw the list of people who asked to read it, I flipped out. I couldn’t possibly show it to Mr. Moses! What would he think? And a family friend?? I’d be horrified! All these nice, wonderful people want to share with me, and I’m petrified.

I sent it to the first three readers with explanations and apologies and much apprehension, and then I started to think. Why do I have to make myself so uncomfortable and unhappy for the sake of helping mankind (and meeting Matt Lauer)? If I never write this book, will anyone care? Yes, I think people would relate to my story, but do I have an obligation to the world to share it?

Um, nope. Just like I don’t have an obligation to the world to qualify for Boston. I think writers feel the need to produce something from the dark pain they experience, and certainly some of the best books are honest, unflinching accounts of painful moments we can relate to. But do I have to fall into that category? No. Or maybe not now, not for this topic.

Sure, I’ll keep working toward my own personal goals with my running and writing, and I’ll keep having my own tiny little triumphs and defeats along the way. And I can share them or not, but only if I’m comfortable with that level of exposure. If not, I can keep my own little secrets, and no one will be worse for wear.

PS — Stop speculating on the topic — I didn’t do anything illegal, and I’m just fine these days.