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I settle onto the couch early this morning. The sun is still hiding behind the horizon, but the glow of daylight is beginning to fill the room around me. I watch as long shadows begin to creep onto the floor, up the wall. I hear the mourning doves through the open windows. They are loud this morning, an attempt to out-perform each other, I suspect. I silence the sound of my music, the lure of the distraction is too much–repeat that song, skip over the next, go back and replay the last. There is a chill in the air and I cover myself with a blanket. Summer is not over, but I sense it already–the changing seasons. Darkness stays a bit longer in the morning now. Where does the time go? a friend asks me over steaming cups of coffee this week. I have no answer.
Five-hundred words a day. That was Chad’s encouragement. Simply write 500 words a day.
Since then, I’ve found article after article spouting the same advice. The idea is not new and I wonder–are there new ideas anywhere? Are we saying the same things over and over again, nuanced in a different way? Does it matter? The best things are worth repeating, I think.
Years ago I read that it takes 14 days to develop a new habit. Today is day 10 of (at least) 500 words a day. It’s not habit yet, but I’m still at it. Practicing. Trying. Words of nonsense on some days and others words that feel weighty. I wonder if the words will matter in a year or two or or 10 or 20? I think they will matter later–the nonsense and weighty. I think they will all matter.
*******
A few days ago, Charlie stood in the kitchen talking about soccer. The positions he wants to play, the things he’d like to accomplish. Chad encourages (maybe lectures?) him, go outside and kick the ball against the barn 100 times a day. That’s it. It’s not a lot, but it will help you. Charlie turns his nose up, not wanting to hear the words. I know what he wants. He wants it to just happen. He wants to be great without the work. He wants the glory, without the grind.
He can’t see what we know–it will take hard work.
Shortly after the soccer conversation, Charlie emerges from the basement carrying a plaque he found while exploring boxes. He holds the plaque up to me, You should put this up somewhere, he says. I look over the inscription from a half marathon I’d run several years ago. It doesn’t need to be put up anywhere, I tell him. He is persistent, It’s cool, he tells me, it’s first place. It shouldn’t be in a box. I ignore his persistence and instead asked him, Do you know how I got that? He avoids my eyes and instead offers a pre-teen grunt of I knooowwwwwwwwww. He turns around and make his way back down the basement stairs still carrying the plaque. He opted out of the lecture (encouragement?) he knew would come.
If he would have stayed, I would have told him all the hard work I’d exerted to become a strong runner. I probably would have told him about the hours I’d spent, the injuries I’d endured, and the setbacks I’d overcome, simply to get to the starting line. I probably would have told him about the times I would cry in the middle of a race in my early years because I was so tired after the first mile. (I’ve always had a flare for the dramatic.) I definitely would have told him that I had almost zero natural ability as a runner and when I began, I was nowhere near the front of the pack.
Earlier this week I read in this book by Jeff Goins, “. . . nobody reaches expert status without intense preparation. Excellence, then, is a matter of practice, not talent.”
I am aware that Charlie will have to come to these realizations on his own. I know I did. I still remember the lectures (encouragement?) my Dad gave me during those early running years. Things like, push past the pain, push past the discomfort, practice, practice, and then practice some more. I remember the way I thought he just didn’t understand me. I remember thinking he had no clue how hard it was. I remember thinking that I wasn’t one to collect trophies, that was reserved for the fast runners.
Now I understand that I had to grab onto the truth of my Dad’s words myself. I had to believe them. And, most importantly, I had to decide that the return on the investment was worth it.
(It was.)
*******
So it goes with 500 words. It’s not a habit yet. Maybe it’s a habit-in-processes? Right now I am relearning the lesson I’ve learned more than a few times in my life–passion doesn’t precede success, hard work does.
Today, I’m simply showing up. Writing a few words and trusting that over time, a look backward will prove the investment was worth it.
