Finishing

Eat your heart out Murakami!

If you told sixteen-year-old me how much thirty-four year-old me would love Jock Talk I would have treated you to a powerful eye roll. I spent most of my life decidedly allergic to inspirational turns of phrase. Maybe it was growing up in the era of toxic-positivity books like The Secret or being raised in the church or reading too much Chicken Soup for the Soul as a pivotal, oppositional part of my brain was forming. For most of my life phrases like “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” (Wayne Gretzky) and “don’t be afraid of failure. This is the way to succeed” (LeBron James) would have elicited the aforementioned eye roll. Now, though, I go to spin class and soak in the instructors’ joyful, uplifting pep talks. I sit on the bike, grinning, and think yeah, I can do hard things! I have a little can of mantras I open during the hard part of long runs that helps me keep going. “Strongest body ever,” I whisper to myself as I drink the last sip of bloodwarm Gatorade from my running vest. “The only way out is through,” I recite in my mind as I check my mileage on my Garmin watch for the six hundredth time on a five mile run. Maybe it’s sobriety or aging that’s turning me into a human book of inspirational sports quotes. Whatever it is, my inner jock has made me a better writer, too.

I know Haruki Murakami already did this much more eloquently than I will. The writing-running metaphors abound. I won’t make you read more of them here. What I really want to talk about is finishing.

A lot of the Instagram Reels I get about running marathons emphasize the importance of envisioning yourself crossing the finish line. I tried this when I ran the Chicago Marathon in October. Standing in my little pen for slow runners at the start, I pictured myself, hours later, crossing through the archway and being handed my medal and, hopefully, a banana. It didn’t make the task at hand of running for over four hours feel easier. Instead, what did work was reminding myself that I’d already finished dozens of times. I’d finished long run after long run. Every single time I was sure I couldn’t do it. Every single time I looked at my handwritten running schedule and thought no way in hell I’m running eighteen miles today. Then I ate my graham crackers, drank my Gatorade, and did it. I finished. I said my dumb little mantras and (jock talk incoming!) put one foot in front of the other. I finished week after week.

I think craft books and writing advice share a lot of DNA with jock talk. There’s lots of practice and showing up and moving through adversity. Putting your butt in the chair and your hands on the keyboard is a common pearl of wisdom. Some writers will tell you to commit two thousand words a day to the page come hell or high water.

I don’t write every day. I don’t keep a word count calendar or ever, ever stick to the deadlines I impose upon myself. But this year I did finish. I finished the coming of age novel I have been working on in fits and starts since 2017. I completed a draft and then I completed a revision and today I will send it off. And although I loved getting an MFA and I have loved taking writing workshops and attending residencies, I am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that I learned far more about writing through pushing myself to finish this novel than I did in any of those spaces. It’s not about the persistence and discipline of finishing (although I do think that’s important.) It’s that something happens when you finish a project. You can hold it in your hands and weigh it against your hopes and expectations. You can reckon with what you thought the project was at the outset and consider what it became. You can know that, yes, you overcame failure and self doubt.

When I teach my writing classes I always wrap my bits of writing advice in layer after layer of caveats: do what works for you, be open to different modes of making, this is just my process.

I am going to say here without a caveat: I think in 2026 we should all finish something. My goal is to finish, within the span of this year, a complete draft of a new novel. Maybe it will work out, maybe it won’t. But, hey, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.