I finished a novel. I didn’t give up when shit fell apart. I did what I said I was going to do.
Five nonlinear revelations about writing and backbone from the past month…
I’m nothing if not determined. With four marathons (a fifth on the way) and thousands of miles under my belt, I hope you believe me. In 2016, I went to a good friend’s wedding in St. Louis on a Saturday night, took a redeye back to Philly after the vows, tucked myself in at 1:00AM, and woke up at 4:00AM on Sunday to run the Philadelphia Marathon. As I ran, I dedicated each of my twenty-six miles to a friend or family member. I gave one of my miles to the friend who had been married the night before and her new husband. I thought of how beautiful and bold it is to love someone. How beautiful and bold it is to move forward with a racing heart. I thought about how I do what I say I am going to do. How I suck up. How I grit teeth. How I push through. How I care about my friends. How I care about my commitments.
Writing is a different beast than a marathon. Writing digs inside of us, scrapes at our stomachs, and claws at our chests. I must finish the novel, but the novel wants to bite me first. The novel wants to show me how I keep making the same mistakes, over and over again. In life and on the page. The novel mocks me for writing about what I know. The novel shames me for writing about what I don’t. The novel tells me that my memory is bad and my brain doesn’t work fast enough. I find typos after proofreading countless times. Let’s face it—the novel makes me feel like shit.
A few years ago I wrote about two of my friends and the circumstances that have caused them to isolate themselves from society. For their whole adult lives, these friends have turned into each other and closed out the rest of the world—except for me. And then, around the time I wrote the poem, they closed me out, too. This year, we’ve been slowly reconciling—mending a wound we don’t know how to name. Last month, unprepared for my writing group, I printed the old poem and brought it along. When I read it out loud to the wise faces around the table, my voice got deep and ugly. I was in pain. The poem was hurting me. I choked up. “I felt like a ghost came out of my mouth,” I said to the group to feel less stupid. I read the poem out loud to them again. It came out better the second time, clearer. On the drive home, at a red light, I thought about what I had said. Writing makes ghosts come out of us. Writing teaches us about the things and the people who are dear to us. Writing shows us the parts of us that are dead and shows us where to breathe life.
The novel gnashes and thrashes, but there are moments—here and there—when the novel loves me. When it gives me words to understand my pain and my gratitude. When it teaches me that those two things are oftentimes the same. When it shows me how much those people that I grew up around really mean something to my adult life. Even if they are strangers to me now. The novel shows me what I believe in and how I should pray. It shows me I can create something that wasn’t there when I sat down. Being loved by a novel is something like tending a plant. Except the writer is the plant. The writer grows out under her novel’s thumb. She waits for it to water her. She waits for the novel to open the blinds so she can feel the sunshine.
I’ve wobbled over many finish lines in my life, exhausted and panting. A runner knows—there is no relief quite like raising your hands behind your head and sucking in a fresh breath. After a runner crosses the finish line, she talks to her legs. Slow down, strong ones. Slow down. You did the thing you have been training for. You did what you needed to do. Slow down. Drink the air that my heart is sending to you. Drink it and rest. Get yourselves ready for the next thing I will ask you to do.