The tree stood at the edge of the horizon.
There was only one tree on these broad wheat fields
of Manitoba, where the land lay like a starched
bed sheet and the sky made me feel like I was
bicycling inside a blue-domed snow globe. After
rising countless hills in Saskatchewan, topping
rolling peak after rolling peak, only to see the
golden waves of wheat continue to ripple into
the distance, I had been relieved to finally be
on flat—truly flat—land.
That was what I had thought that morning.
Now, I was stuck on an asphalt conveyor belt
pedalling, furiously pedalling. The faster my
feet spun, the faster the belt rolled—and
in the opposite direction. The wind also blew
against me, making my legs strain like they were
back on the Rockies. I could have been on the
stationary bike at my local YMCA for all of the
progress I was making.
My shoulders hunched up around my ears. My thoughts
turned dark and ugly. I cursed the wind but I
especially cursed that tree. Would I ever reach
it and if I did, would the effort be worth it?
I focussed so intently on that one tree I stopped
seeing the beauty around me. I stopped appreciating
the ride for the incredible journey it was. I
had turned it into something ugly: a chore. That
was not the reason I was on this journey. I was
there by choice, because I wanted to see my country
and experience it in a way that isn't possible
behind the windshield of a car.
I had to stop. I got off my bike, stretched,
had a drink of tangy green Gatorade, bit into
a ripe nectarine and chewed (and chewed, and chewed)
through a Powerbar. I complained about the wind
and that one tree to my friend, Lauren, who was
also on the journey with me. It turns out she
was having just as hard a day as I was.
After we had run out of things to complain about
and I had sucked off all of the fruit I could
from the nectarine pit (without it becoming obvious
that I was doing anything to keep from getting
back on my bike), we started looking to the horizon
again. We looked down at our bikes and groaned.
It was going to hurt getting back on. The pain
in my butt still hadn't disappeared and I knew
it wasn't going to get any better but I also knew
I wasn't going to reach that tree if I continued
to stand there. I knew I could make it if I took
it one pedal stroke at a time.
I hauled my bike off the ground, I swung my leg
over, I clicked my feet into the pedals and I
started cycling again. Right. Left. Right, left.
One pedal stroke at a time.
It was still slow and I still sweat and grunted
against the wind. But this time, I looked to my
right every once in a while instead of staring
straight ahead at the tree. I noticed the fence
posts flickered by pretty quickly. The gravel
at the side of the road blurred next to my tires,
which hummed along the pavement. I was actually
getting somewhere. One pedal stroke at a time.
I made mini goals. I biked to the plastic pop
bottle with the yellow liquid, to the cows munching
just ahead of me, to the ravens hovering and squawking
off the shoulder around the brown fur of...eww.
Glad I passed that.
The next time I looked up, the tree was closer
and I was enjoying myself again.
While this story is about me on my bike and my
struggle to reach that one silly tree, it is also
about overcoming your own writing challenges.
These could be anything from choking through the
dusty plains of your work-in-progress only to
find you have still more empty pages and an ever-blinking
cursor when the haze clears. It could be relentlessly
pursuing publication or repeatedly attempting
to snag a hot agent (or any agent really) only
to receive rejections. Your goals can float in
the distance like a wavering mirage the same way
my tree did. They can turn into work, instead
of your passion, your spark, your reason for being.
So what can you do when you find yourself exhausted
on your own asphalt conveyor belt? You can use
the same techniques I did.
Take your eyes off your goal for a while. Focus
on something else instead, like family or friends.
See a favourite movie. Read a favourite book.
Fuel up, but instead of Gatorade and a Powerbar,
have a glass of wine and a brownie (or two). Chat
with a writing buddy. It feels really good to
have someone else with whom you can share your
frustrations.
Re-evaluate your goals, seeing which little ones
you can accomplish on your way to the bigger challenge.
Stretch. Meditate. Be positive. And then pick
up that pen, keyboard, or Alphasmart and get writing.
Jot one word at a time. Let the cursor be the
beat to which you set your heart. Congratulate
yourself for even the small accomplishments. Send
that manuscript out again.
Eventually, you'll get there. One pen stroke,
one keystroke, at a time.
Erin Acton is assistant editor of Spotlight
and a member of GVC. Her journey across Canada
on her mountain bike taught her many things about
herself and about life, including that it's not
a good idea to drink a pitcher of draught beer
on a rocking, overnight ferry when you have nowhere
to sleep but under a table and 100 kilometers
to ride the next day.
Articles may be reprinted in RWA® chapter
newsletters, attributed to the Spotlight.
Non-RWA® newsletters may not reprint articles
without the permission of the authors.
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