About 8 weeks ago, I committed to a weight-lifting regimen. It’s been going well. For one thing, I simply like lifting. It appeals to my inner warrior, because I feel tough and powerful when I lift. It’s slowly reshaping me. Right now the changes are small and not particularly noticeable to anyone except me. A pair of my weekend pants has had to go into the trash because they won’t stay up any more. My knees are feeling less tired at the end of every day and my arms look just a little tighter when I look at myself in the mirror. Even though the changes aren’t obvious, they’re happening, and it makes me feel accomplished and determined to go just a little further.
When we’re at the Y, I find myself reaching the end of a set, and saying, “Just one more.” I know I’m about to reach muscle fatigue, but I want to push through for one more press, one more lift, one more stretch. Getting that one extra rep done proves that I can push past any wall. So I reach for just one more.
When I’m writing, it’s easy to work for a while and then announce, “Oh gosh, my eyes are tired” or “Two pages is plenty” or “I feel like watching television now.” Getting anything done is marvelous, and something to be pleased about, especially when you’re a slowpoke like me. But there’s always one more page, one more scene, one more sentence. Writing that one extra piece does the same thing to my work that lifting is doing to my body. It pushes past my creativity fatigue, the place I thought was as far as I could go. It’ll make me tougher, able to resist the temptation of entertainment or a little extra sleep. My day will end with just a little more work completed than I might have had. Who knows, that one more line might be one of the most gorgeous combinations of words I’ve ever composed. But I’ll never know until I try it.
So tonight I’m going to push past my tiredness and write just one more. Join me!
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