The art of Losing.

Those of you who have followed my blog for awhile know that I fight. Yep, as in boxing. Yep, in a real ring with a real girl who throws real punches. (oh, don't I know it)
And here's the thing. Boxing is a lot more like writing than you would expect.
To win a fight you have to want it. You have to train hard and be hard and box harder. And when the other girl is up in your face and you are deep into the third quarter and long past the ability to suck in a decent amount of air you have to remind yourself how much you want it. And when it's all over you have to hope that was enough.
And sometimes... sometimes it isn't.
Tonight it wasn't.

I lost my boxing match tonight by one point.
Yeah.
One. Point.
Got any idea how many times I have been over the fight in my head and saw all the places I could have picked up one measly point? I'll tell you. Too many times.

And writers, it's the same thing with books. You gotta want it and train hard and writer harder. And when the hours are long and lonely and the book up in your face demanding things of you you aren't sure you can deliver, you have to remind yourself how much you want it. And when it's all over you have to hope that was enough.
And sometimes... a lot of times. It won't be.

What do you tell yourself then?
What is your internal dialogue like when the thing you want you can't have and you really have no one but you to blame?
There is an art to losing writers. An art to not getting what you want.
In boxing there is an art to getting back into training the week following a losing fight. There is an art to saying, "I did what I could and it was not enough." And then going after what you want again.

In writing there is an art to writing another book following the one no agent wanted. Or re-writing the query letter and manuscript after enough rejections to wall paper you house.

That people, is what separates the true fighters out there. And as writers we fight too. We fight everyday for what we want and who we want to be. In fact no matter who you are or what you want, life is far more about art of losing than it is winning. Because most of us will spend more time losing than winning. It's what you do after you gave everything and failed that really determines what you are made of. That, I think, is the art of losing.

For now, though, I'm off to bed. Cause I kinda hurt. In my head and in my heart. (Some of my ribs don't feel to great either) Tomorrow I'll have a little chat with Me. Me needs to hear that she fought a good fight and lost. I'm proud of her. And she needs to hear that next week she will be back training. Yes body. I did say next week.

Night all.
Bless.
Especially if you too are learning the art of losing.

The Pain of Wanting

Wanting arrived on my doorstep. A brightly colored child dressed in too-too and ballet slippers. A bubble blowing, twirling little girl who ran through my house and heart without stopping.
"And who are you?" I asked, unsure if I should let this child be mine.
"Wanting," she said and with another twirl she was gone.
Up stairs and downs stairs she ran, taking my hand the next time she passed by me and pulling me out into the day. Together we skipped out and through my herb garden, giggling as if the sun would always shine.  Collapsing, we let the grass tickle our backs and told each other stories. Tales of all the things I have dreamed since I were her age. We spent the entire day making daisy chains and pulling leaves off clover until she remarked that the afternoon sky looked like pink lemonade with cotton candy clouds. And then she left. Or went to sleep. Or took up residence in a room of my heart until the next moment I had to give my time to Wanting and all her dreams.

The following day Wanting returned. Or woke up. Or led me back to my heart. This time she was dressed as an Indian, complete with paper head dress and peacock feathers. Her feet were bare and her hair was as wild as the wind that picked up as soon as I opened the door of my heart to her. Her feet pounded the stairs of my house, her grin peeking out from around corners. Her squealing echoed through the halls.
"I gotcha!" she yelled after every plastic arrow shot from her bow. Laughing, I found my own plastic bow and together we raced after each other until we could race no more. On the sweet summer grass we built a tee pee and laid under the sheets pitched between the kitchen chairs speaking about dreams. All my hearts desires. For Wanting knew them all.

For untold glorious weeks she arrived at my door when ever my heart had time to dream. When ever I had time to once again be that child. To race with the winds and make shapes out of clouds. To finger paints rainbows and bake mud pies.

I took the hand of Wanting and kissed her sweet cheek. She and I, we knew some things. Dreams were simple. Dreams were delicious. Dreams smelt like night jasmine and the summer earth after the rain.

And then it happened.

Wanting fell. We were walking along an unfamiliar path. But the sky was golden and the willows along the stream seem to call our names. Further and further we walked. Everything in us said this was the way we wanted to go.

I pointed to a flock of birds over head. I should have been watching her. I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. Her foot must have caught on something. Reality, I suspect. He can be a bastard. He is certainly no respecter of little girls, nor is he precious about dreams.

One moment we were waling together, Wanting and I, hand in hand. And the next she was gone. I raced madly up and down the stream's edge calling her name. But she didn't surface...
Did she even fall down here?

I am still calling.
I have hope.
Wanting is a resilient little thing. And if she fell into the water I know she can swim.

But to not have her with me, to not breath the scent of summer grass or be able to share an afternoon full of pink lemonade skies, hurts. It just hurt. Wanting hurts. And I hurt. And that my dear friends is the stark reality of dreams. Wanting is beautiful. Until she meets reality. And then she can be difficult to find.

So I call out. I search. And I wait. Until Wanting, is found, returns or leads me back to my heart, I will be here.


What about you?  Have you met Wanting? Do you walk together? Or are you calling her name?

The Heart of the Thing

Rejection sucks. I don't care if you have skin as thick as a rhinos butt, rejection still sucks.  It strokes our fears and pokes its ugly fingers into wounds we didn't know we had.

You aren't good enough. Talent passed you by. No one will ever think what you're doing matters. 

Those whispers can become screams. We shy away from the noise in our own heads. But rejection is not what we ultimately run from. It is the possibility that perhaps we do have what it takes and that just maybe we might have to show the world we believe in ourselves. That we may have to take the hand of another rejection and say to it, "I do not believe you."


"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." ~ Nelson Mandela
That, my friends, is the heart of the thing. 
It is who you know you can be, not who you currently are. 


Use rejection, don't become its hand maid.


Jamie, this post is for you.
Don’t be afraid of your potential. Take the courage to follow your dreams, not what you already know or what is comfortable. You will never regret it.