I’ve been walking back and forth in my pool to keep my body going while my little red blood cells regenerate after my recent shoulder surgery. They actually made an appearance right on schedule: fourth week, lots more energy. Since walking is not so great at raising the heart rate, I decided to jog. Good choice – 30 or so traverses pushing against the water and moving as fast as I can had me panting.
Which made me think about resistance. What came to mind is the 1 lb weight my Dad put on the end of my tennis racket when I was seven or eight. He was a damned fine tennis player (New England singles champion, played at Wimbledon), and I think he was hoping for another champion in his family. I complained loud and long at the extra weight, and my arm could barely hit a forehand, but he said my arm muscles would develop quickly against the resistance. And he was right. When the weight came off the next year, I had a zinger of a forehand and backhand.
Which made me think about writing. I’ve run in to resistance this year. Resistance at finishing the final editing of my first book, resistance after the first two chapters of my second. I had parents who drummed into me that there was nothing I couldn’t do if I tried, and if I ran into resistance, I just had to buckle down and work harder. I took it to heart, and it helped my academic career. Writing, not so much until just lately. When I flagged with the book rewrite, I took time off and wrote a story about lobsters. It was a breeze. I was reinvigorated. I finished the book rewrite. A sense of accomplishment and on to the new book and the next chapter. Now I am bogged down in querying editors about the first book, but no matter, I’m flying with the second. Soon I’ll be pushing on with querying. So resistance in writing, at least for me, seems to be a signal to try something new and creative for a while, get back the old enthusiasm and push forward. Feels like the weight is off my racket.