GOING THE DISTANCE

It’s August.  AUGUST.  

Staring slack-jawed at the calendar I have to refrain from the internal barrage of “why isn’t _____ done yet?”   With set timelines for my writing, no excuse seems viable enough to explain where two-thirds of the year went.   

          In retrospect, I should answer to the English degree hanging on the wall.

But starting out, is starting out.  There’s a balance to it, one that involves no time off and a coffee IV.

          Writing is an art, like singing or dancing or painting.  All artists have to work and perform at some point in the beginning.  There are biographies of singers who lived on their dilapidated tour buses, and used glue guns to design their stage clothes.  Dancers who didn’t just walk onto a stage and know the steps.  They practiced them. Musicians repeat the notes, that inflection over and over until perfect.  Performers turn and step, jump and land, bruise and bleed, until the move looks flawless.  

           I try to remember that.

          Writers draft and cut, patch and par down; prune, elaborate, clarify, enunciate, reveal and cliff-hang.  We work the words.  And sometimes the words pin us to the floor, not the other way around…

          And still I write.  I struggle.  There are times that for all the endless revising, I don’t think that I've earned the title of “Writer.” 

But I believe that any endeavor in which time flies, whatever hobby that engulfs you fully, is what you’re meant to do. 

          Watching the Olympics this week, that principle got me thinking.

          Proud participants from around the world stood representative of their countries; talented athletes that trained and practiced for years.  In a myriad of categories, the best of the best competed in the games, expressing physical excellence in each of their selected fields.  

          I harbor that passion for writing, and I’m not alone.  Looking around, I’ve always held a deep unity with other writers.  I respect the hardship of it, the challenge; the resulting joy when published.  I want everyone to be successful, and I want to succeed, so I can one day have the honor of standing up with other great authors. 

I love the diversity of the sub-genres.  There are historical writers (to whom I give mad props for doing all that added research), paranormal, YA, and suspense. 

Some knew that they wanted to write at eighteen, some followed a longer path to getting established.

As someone who took a long time to discover what I wanted to do with my life, I can say that I feel at home with authors who got their start in their later years.  I had an author that I respect and admire say that she, a “late bloomer”, discovered romance in her early-thirties, which thrilled me to no end, because I did, too.  :0D

It’s a journey to find what you love to do, and a test to prove that you can actually do it.  You have to remember that you’re not alone.  Ask others how they made it, be inspired by their stories.

The images of those Olympians come to mind.  It’s amazing to see what muscles they have. Swimmers are lean and toned, equestrians lithe and petite, runners holding bulk in only the areas that serve them on the track. 

This made me wonder:  What muscles does a writer have?

Comparing the two professions; writing challenges have knocked me down and forced me to build brain muscle.  

But if never faced with the hurdles, how do you learn?  If you do everything perfect the first time, how do you become better?

Like an Olympian, those are the scuffs and scrapes that define your character. 

I’m sure that every one of those hopefuls had to face pressure, stress and failure.  They’ve shed tears for the broken bones, pulled muscles, and frustration when their best wasn’t good enough.

Sitting down at my desk each night, I don’t imagine any songs of victory playing; don’t envision any moments of glory.  I do know that it’s important, however, that simple act of sitting down to get started.  If even for a short while…

I assume the writing position, and the muscle of my mind comes awake.  My body conditioned, my head familiar with the drill.

Like a runner poised at the starting line.

Body limber, knees crouched, fingers tented against the hard ground. 

Maybe it’s like that: Ready.  Set.  Go.