Points of failure: Adding resistance
I haven’t been able to complete a work of fiction all year.
I have been simultaneously working on two short stories for eight months now. During the last meeting with my writing coach, she showed me where one of them becomes disjointed. When I showed the other one to my partner, I got a muted reaction. Both stories have clever parts, but as a whole they’re not ready.
It’s frustrating.
Eight months feels like a long time to work on something and have nothing to show for it. Disheartened, my initial inclination was to jump ship. To abandon the practice and avoid further disappointment.
Familiar questions started coming to mind—“Who do you think you are, Stephen King?” Followed by limiting thoughts — “English isn’t even your first language.” “You don’t have a writing degree.”
When I am at my lowest—artistically, creatively, or emotionally, these thoughts seem so real.
Staying the course is challenging when it feels like not much is happening. But without obstacles, there could be no winning. By definition it cannot exist. Without the process, an achievement is only a lottery.
I am currently entering month five of rehabilitating my knee from injury. My recovery plan is divided into four, two-week phases. But the damage I had was so significant that I had to spend six weeks on phase one alone. I had to go real slow, perform rudimentary movements with no additional weight. It felt boring. I thought no progress was being made.
I was wrong.
Earlier this month when I was finally able to add weight to the routine, it became clear that the time spent in phase one was critical. After a single session in phase two, my leg felt stronger. The closest to normal it had been since the injury. I thought about how the creative muscles are just like the ones in my leg.
To get stronger, they need resistance.
I spent my first year of writing publicly hoping I’d stumble upon beginner’s luck. Maybe I could sell a story right away, I thought. Maybe I could shorten the process of becoming good and being recognized. Looking back, after a few days of sulking about my unfinished stories, what became clear is what I already knew: process alone is where my focus needs to be. Not outcome.
In the middle of all this, I was also editing an interview I conducted with one of my favorite authors, Luis Urrea. In it, I asked about his relationship to luck after one of the most renowned writers in American literature had discovered him in college, helping launch his career. I wanted to get his definition of luck, but the conversation went elsewhere. Later, I asked via text:
“Luck is having the opportunity to try again.”
See a one minute clip of Luis telling the story of his lucky break:
