Weather the Storm

Here in Toronto, it’s been a long, bitterly cold winter. The frigid temperatures, attributed by meteorologists to the “Siberian Express,” together with an infection that manifested in mid-February, sidelined me when it came to running. First, I wasn’t brave enough to run outside when it was -25°C or colder. Second, the illness took away my strength and energy. Occasionally, I went to the gym in my building but nothing beats running outside.

So ten days again, after about seven weeks of not running outside, I went for a run along the Martin Goodman Trail. I felt like a beginner again. I couldn’t run non-stop. I couldn’t run without feeling like my heart would, at any moment, jump out of my chest. When I resigned from competition, I let myself walk when the cramps in my sides were too painful; and I would run again when my body had recovered. Since that first run ten days ago, I’ve put in five other runs. Slowly, I’m getting better — running more than walking, running longer and further. The point is I’m running again.

As a writer, there are days, too, when I feel like a beginner again. These are the days where it feels like I’m writing uphill, like the writing is static, lost its magic. I have trouble focusing. I wonder if I’ll ever be published again …? I think, “What’s the use?” Yes, these are the days when I can see self-pity making its way stealthily towards me, hoping that I’ll eagerly join the party it’s throwing in my honour.

I’ve learned to weather the “storm,” to let myself be a beginner again. At the end of the day, what matters is that I have put pen to page. If the writing on a particular day feels stale and rigid, I remind myself that it is only a draft. It can be tweaked a little, or a lot, or tossed out if a from-the-top rewrite is deemed more appropriate. Like with running, I have to resign from competition. I can’t worry about who’s doing better than me, who’s getting published. I can’t compare myself to bestselling authors like Danielle Steel, Dave Eggers, Anne-Marie MacDonald or Margaret Atwood. I can worry about what is within my control, and I control whether or not I show up at the page each day.

Taking it one day at a time, I’ve come to appreciate the creative process that I’m in. Each day offers a new adventure. Each day a writing project inches forward one word at a time. When I give myself over to that process, something magical happens: I finish something. Finishing something — the final edit of a short story, the synopsis, the novel — feels good. The completed project offers reassurance, when doubt lingers large and heavy, that I am on the right path. I am not necessarily at the beginning or the end, but somewhere in-between. That is the artist in me holding steadfast to my dreams.