I remember the first time I “climbed” a mountain, or at least what felt like one. I was 15. We did the Grouse Grind and I wanted to die. I remember thinking “WHY” and “I’M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN” and the agony of those first few days after. (It was also the first time I accidentally ate a bug, but that’s neither here nor there).
I’ve done hundreds of hikes since. I don’t even remember when liking it stopped being a conscious thing. But something wild happened the last couple we did before this year’s season ended. They were on trails we had done years ago. I remember both knocked me flat. But this time around, about a couple of hours in, I looked at the GPS, turned to my husband, and said, “Hey, we’re already there? This used to be so much harder!” I wasn’t breathless, I wasn’t in pain, and I didn’t finish the night huddled in a corner of the tent in exhaustion–we actually spent some time chatting as a family and watching the stars over a campfire. But nothing had changed. The mountains didn’t magically get shorter over the years. No one went up there to make the trails any less steeper.
What happened was I got stronger.
As someone who used to be unable to walk a kilometer without complaining, one thing I learned about physical fitness is that…a degree of pain (good pain, of course) precedes growth. Muscles have to get sore. Your heart has to pound. You have to sweat. You have to get uncomfortable. Because by breaking things down a little, your body has the chance to build it up better.
You know where I’m going with this. Writing is just like that. I have never, in the nearly three decades I’ve been doing this, ever progressed without being uncomfortable in some way. Whether it’s a rejection, a critique (usually doled out by my internal critic who is the absolute worst), or just a general, nagging discontent over my output…I have to find a way to deal with it and then make a conscious effort to push through the pain. Just like with physical fitness, the entire process really is about your relationship with challenges. The same way I don’t get to the top of a mountain if I don’t find a way past the steep climbs, I don’t finish a book without figuring out certain hurdles. Sometimes the way past them isn’t through them–sometimes you just find another way. And on and on it goes.
At no point do I hike up mountains or write a book with the expectation it’s going to be a smooth ride. When the inevitable setbacks occur and the pain sets in, I just use it as an excuse for growth. It’s how I can now accomplish three or four times a year what used to feel impossible. And so now, looking at my writing schedule for the next three years, even though I find myself balking a little (three epic novels a year? Are you sure, Kay? ARE YOU SURE?!), I have to remember that I’ve done this before. I can do it again, and with any luck and a little bit more perseverance, it’ll feel a little less harder each time.
