What’s Your Backup Plan?

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What’s Your Backup Plan?
25411890 “You’re riding the bike again?” my ten-year-old son says, eyeing my well-worn tank top and shorts as I head toward the basement and my stationary bike. “Sure am.” Plenty of well-documented reasons motivate me to join online spin classes, but the number one reason I ride is because my basement is where I train to become a better writer. I enjoy writing, and it’s good for me. It helps me sort through my thoughts, flex my imagination, and make sense of the world. When it’s going well, writing is play. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. I also enjoy working out (more or less) and it’s good for me. It helps me move better, sleep better, and it’s good for my brain. When it’s going well, working out is rewarding. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. In fact, during most sprints at my desk or on my bike, there’s at least one point when all I want to do is stop. “Wait for the shift,” my spin instructor commands. She’s talking about pushing through the moment when you’re certain you can’t keep going. It’s the moment your body accepts what’s happening and finds a way to continue. Wait for the shift. Those words imprinted themselves onto my writer’s brain. I often find myself hung up on a difficult piece of writing. It feels rambling, disjointed, confusing. It doesn’t make sense anymore and I don’t know how to get it back on track. The problem feels too big, and a nasty inner voice shouts that I’m not a strong enough writer, I’m doing it wrong, this isn’t working. The added stress of having no guarantees my writing will go anywhere other than my own computer screen can be paralyzing. In these moments, writing is hard. I used to leap from my desk, storming off to do something that felt more productive like laundry or organizing my spice rack. Sometimes I needed days before I could get back to it, and I’d return already worn out from frustration. Instead, the bike taught me how to anticipate and accept resistance and get through it. “Four more minutes,” my instructor says. I’m on my bike, pushing close to max effort. Instantly, I panic. Four minutes!? She can’t be serious. I can’t sustain another fifteen seconds let alone four minutes. I come up with a thousand reasons why I should stop. It’s too hard. “If you focus, you’ll find the flow,” she says. “If you freak out, you’re going to miss it.”

“You’re riding the bike again?” my ten-year-old son says, eyeing my well-worn tank top and shorts as I head toward the basement and my stationary bike. “Sure am.” Plenty of well-documented reasons motivate me to join online spin classes, but the number one reason I ride is because my basement is where I train to become a better writer. I enjoy writing, and it’s good for me. It helps me sort through my thoughts, flex my imagination, and make sense of the world. When it’s going well, writing is play. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. I also enjoy working out (more or less) and it’s good for me. It helps me move better, sleep better, and it’s good for my brain. When it’s going well, working out is rewarding. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. In fact, during most sprints at my desk or on my bike, there’s at least one point when all I want to do is stop. “Wait for the shift,” my spin instructor commands. She’s talking about pushing through the moment when you’re certain you can’t keep going. It’s the moment your body accepts what’s happening and finds a way to continue. Wait for the shift. Those words imprinted themselves onto my writer’s brain. I often find myself hung up on a difficult piece of writing. It feels rambling, disjointed, confusing. It doesn’t make sense anymore and I don’t know how to get it back on track. The problem feels too big, and a nasty inner voice shouts that I’m not a strong enough writer, I’m doing it wrong, this isn’t working. The added stress of having no guarantees my writing will go anywhere other than my own computer screen can be paralyzing. In these moments, writing is hard. I used to leap from my desk, storming off to do something that felt more productive like laundry or organizing my spice rack. Sometimes I needed days before I could get back to it, and I’d return already worn out from frustration. Instead, the bike taught me how to anticipate and accept resistance and get through it. “Four more minutes,” my instructor says. I’m on my bike, pushing close to max effort. Instantly, I panic. Four minutes!? She can’t be serious. I can’t sustain another fifteen seconds let alone four minutes. I come up with a thousand reasons why I should stop. It’s too hard. “If you focus, you’ll find the flow,” she says. “If you freak out, you’re going to miss it.”

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“You’re riding the bike again?” my ten-year-old son says, eyeing my well-worn tank top and shorts as I head toward the basement and my stationary bike. “Sure am.” Plenty of well-documented reasons motivate me to join online spin classes, but the number one reason I ride is because my basement is where I train to become a better writer. I enjoy writing, and it’s good for me. It helps me sort through my thoughts, flex my imagination, and make sense of the world. When it’s going well, writing is play. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. I also enjoy working out (more or less) and it’s good for me. It helps me move better, sleep better, and it’s good for my brain. When it’s going well, working out is rewarding. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. In fact, during most sprints at my desk or on my bike, there’s at least one point when all I want to do is stop. “Wait for the shift,” my spin instructor commands. She’s talking about pushing through the moment when you’re certain you can’t keep going. It’s the moment your body accepts what’s happening and finds a way to continue. Wait for the shift. Those words imprinted themselves onto my writer’s brain. I often find myself hung up on a difficult piece of writing. It feels rambling, disjointed, confusing. It doesn’t make sense anymore and I don’t know how to get it back on track. The problem feels too big, and a nasty inner voice shouts that I’m not a strong enough writer, I’m doing it wrong, this isn’t working. The added stress of having no guarantees my writing will go anywhere other than my own computer screen can be paralyzing. In these moments, writing is hard. I used to leap from my desk, storming off to do something that felt more productive like laundry or organizing my spice rack. Sometimes I needed days before I could get back to it, and I’d return already worn out from frustration. Instead, the bike taught me how to anticipate and accept resistance and get through it. “Four more minutes,” my instructor says. I’m on my bike, pushing close to max effort. Instantly, I panic. Four minutes!? She can’t be serious. I can’t sustain another fifteen seconds let alone four minutes. I come up with a thousand reasons why I should stop. It’s too hard. “If you focus, you’ll find the flow,” she says. “If you freak out, you’re going to miss it.”