One step and then another

Today has been an excruciating day, and my sense is that I probably won't choose to write about it on my main blog. But I still want to write about it, and acknowledge what's happening, and this blog actually seems like the perfect place to reflect on it.

Today, the longlist for a Canadian literary prize was announced -- the most important literary prize Canada offers for fiction -- and my new book was not on it. I knew it would be a long-shot, but my publisher and agent were both very hopeful. I'm crushed to have disappointed them--and myself. Getting onto the list would boost sales, garner attention, basically help sell books, which is what I'm supposed to do, as a writer (often people forget that part of the equation, but it's pretty critical to me continuing to be able to write, and more to the point, to publish.)

My initial emotion upon hearing the news was shame, which makes no logical sense. A jury of three people chose a handful of books from an eligible pool of 227. It would have been a stroke of great fortune to be among that handful, and not being there, while disappointing, is hardly shameful.

I don't know why that was what I felt. But I did.

A few hours on, I'm doing better. I bounce.

Here's how this experience relates to the training I've been doing recently. I've been doing some hard runs, trying to give a quick-ish bump to my fitness level so I can race the 25 km trail run I'm signed up to run in a few weeks. In the past five days, I've done two 10km runs, trying to run right at my edge, and last night I went 13km, still pushing to my edge. At 10km, my edge is just under 5 min/km -- at least, I can hold on for about 9 km before slowing slightly. At 13km, my edge is just over 5 min/km. I was pleased to have completed 13.1km yesterday in a time of 1 hour, seven minutes. That's two minutes off a five flat pace. Pretty fast for me. And I could hold it, and if I'd thought to bring water along, I could have gone further.

But here's the thing: every step of those runs is hard work. Every single step. There isn't a step that feels easy. I'm pushing myself the whole way. I have remind myself repeatedly to maintain the intesity of effort.

I find I can't even do it another way (unless I'm running with someone else).

My life as a writer is very similar. I push myself. I set goals that may actually be slightly beyond my reach, but I believe in my own ability to get there. When I don't, it's painful. But I can't stop myself from continuing to try, despite setbacks.

Every step of the way is hard. It never gets easier, because as I get stronger, I don't glide; instead, I push a little harder, expect a little more. It seems to be in my character. Failure hurts, but it isn't a real obstacle. The only obstacle is my response to failure. So I took some to feel sad this morning, and I know the sadness is going to grab me now and again in the days and weeks to come. But I'm going to keep on keeping on. One step at a time.