The day my new husband and I moved into our first apartment, he viciously provoked a water fight over the meager boxes of our possessions. In the interest of saving the defenseless computer, I fled out the door and across the field at the back of the building, snarling about an annulment. The school’s women’s rugby team happened to be practicing in that same field and, impressed by my rage and my sprints, invited me to join them. Robert went back to the apartment. I hared off to play rugby.
Thus began my love affair with the greatest sport on earth.
Rugby hasn’t always been kind to me. I’ve broken fingers and ruptured a bursa. I’ve torn my quad and sprained just about every joint in my body. I’ve dislocated my shoulder repeatedly and been so bruised and battered that coworkers started gently offering me safe havens. I love, love, love ruby, but I can’t even say I’m all that good at it. I’m not particularly fast and I have a hard time memorizing plays and my kicks always seem to go awry. I’m skinny and fragile and can’t seem to reliably throw and run at the same time, which is kind of an important skill in a game that involves a lot of running and throwing.
But still I love it. I play whenever I can and I watch hours of tourneys online and I delight in teaching my boys how to take me out at the ankles while I run in slow motion. Rugby pleases me in a way that is both deeply satisfying and wildly thrilling in the same instant.
I feel much the same way about writing. Writing intoxicates me. I write whenever I can and I read and research a lot about writing and the specifics of my stories and I always squee for joy when my children tell wonderful stories about rock climbing adventures and zombie attacks and magical foxes at wishing wells.
There is, however, one large difference between the way I think about rugby and the way I think about writing. With rugby, I’ll never be anything close to pro, and I am totally okay with that. I want to play my best game and I have a great time doing it. I get some bumps and bruises and I go home happy. Knowing I’ll never be pro does nothing to diminish my enjoyment of the game. With writing, however, I have a hard time letting myself be so carefree.
Maybe it’s a matter of focus. When playing rugby, I have a laser focus on the ball. I know where it is and I itch to get my hands on it and nothing outside the boundary lines matters. When drafting, I can often find that nothing-matters-but-this focus, but the minute I start editing, something changes. The story becomes not just what pleases me, but something that could potentially please others as well. And just as surely as it could please others, it could displease them too. What if nobody likes it?
What if nobody likes me?
I was thinking about this after practice last week, during which I let some sneaky Samoan guy blitz right past me to score the winning try of the scrimmage. It didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder if my teammates were mad at me, whether they liked me or not. I’m sure some of them were disappointed, maybe even annoyed, but I’m just as sure that they knew I was doing my best with some serious disadvantages.
Maybe I should give myself the same accolades while writing. Nobody can deny that I’m giving it my best. Things go awry and I mess stuff up, but any time you put your heart into something, there will be injuries along the way. If I don’t get a few bruises, I’m probably not trying hard enough.
In this vein, though, I’m doing a lot better with the rejections goal than I thought I would be at this point- I’m only slightly behind. But more importantly, I’m learning to take them better. I think choosing to look at rejections as the goals themselves has made them a lot easier to swallow. (Because you all know how I am with check boxes.) Maybe this is a good first step in growing that thick skin professional writers are always talking about!
I’m getting better at this game. (Not at rugby. At that one, I’m just getting older, haha.) I can usually spot my weak points. Self-editing, although not exactly what I’d call fun, is less excruciating than it used to be. I’m getting better and better at using feedback. These are all signs of improvement.
I want to be the best writer I can be, but I always want to enjoy the process. After all, the thrill of telling a good story is what got me into this
addiction hobby in the first place. Even if I never go pro (although I hope I do some day!), I will always love to tell stories.
And I will always love rugby, too, even when it beats me up.
PS- Watch some rugby! Go, Eagles!