I’m a path of least resistance kind of gal. I buy more underwear than necessary so I don’t need to do laundry as often, I put cardboard under my mulch to keep the weeds down, and I use the razors with the soap attached so I don’t have to use shaving cream. I’m a walker, not a runner and prefer to exercise indoors (fewer hills). I screen most of my phone calls so I don’t have to talk with telemarketers, and I hide in the bedroom when the Jehovah’s Witnesses ring the doorbell. Heck, I’ve even stayed with boyfriends way longer than necessary because it was easier than having the break up talk.
I like a sure thing (minus the occasional scratch-off ticket and bingo night with my sister). When I start something, I like to know how I’m going to proceed, and more importantly, that I’m going to succeed. I knew I’d graduate college, I knew I could finish the Dirty Girl 5K, and I knew I could build the raised garden bed. So I proceeded worry free.
We’ve all heard stories about athletes or business people (or even politicians, but we won’t go there) overcoming incredible odds to become successful. I’ve always admired their courage, because that is what it is. They risked everything and sacrificed so much, even though they would most likely fail. These people are my heroes. They looked failure in the face, gave it a firm handshake, then strode on past.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not adverse to hard work, I even like it. I’ve been known to spend a sweaty weekend moving mulch or cutting back overgrown trees until the muscles in my toes hurt. I waitressed for years during high school and college, some of the hardest work out there (remember to tip your servers), and spent one summer mowing grass and cleaning public bathrooms (Dante forgot to include this as part of the ninth circle of Hell). The key point here is I knew could do all of those tasks. I knew I would succeed.
Conversely, success at writing holds no such assurances, and this terrifies me. During this process of writing, revising, and submitting, a (sometimes very vocal) part of me wanted to hang my hat on the achievement of finishing the book. After all, most people can’t say that. And while the rejection from agents stung, it was also safe; I expected to get rejected a lot. In other words, I succeeded at failing.
But now I’ve gotten feedback, a request for revisions. This thrills and horrifies me. What if my revisions aren’t good enough, what if I can’t solve the plot problems, what if they discover I have no idea what I’m doing, or worse, what if I stop having ideas? What if, what if, what if? That little vocal part of me whispers, “Take the easy way. Go back to reading, cleaning the house once in a while, and volunteering at school.”
But for once, I don’t want the easy choice. If I fail, I want to feel it full in the face, like that first smack of arctic air on a sub-zero winter day. I want my breath to disappear into my gut, my eyes to water, and shoulders to hunch. Then, dear reader, I’ll straighten up, wipe away the tears, exhale a frosted puff of air, and stride on.
Get more of me on Twitter @aereichert.
