How Do You Climb a Mountain?

I have wanted to write a memoir for about 10 years now. And it seems like with every year that passes the story almost creates itself as the script of my life plays out. I'm not usually one for self promotion, but I'm told that if I want to be a writer I had better get used to talking myself up. So, with that in mind, as much as it makes me squirm to admit it: I have a damn good story to tell. If you want the details, however, you'll just have to wait for the book. Expected arrival date: sometime between 2 years and "who the hell knows?".

You see, I have found that writing a book is eerily similar to climbing a mountain. Someone may harbor the desire to climb a mountain for years before they even speak a word of it to anyone. This happens, perhaps, because of a fear that others may judge the idea impossible or ridiculous.
"Why do you think you could climb a mountain; don't you know how hard mountain climbing is?" people may say (I emphasize for drama). Eventually, however, the climber-to-be overcomes whatever internal struggles he may have about even voicing their lofty goal and reveals it to close friends and family.
"You should absolutely go for it," seems to be the general response from his trusted circle.
With the support of those who love him the incubation period continues in the would-be climber's mind as he starts to stir up a plan of action. Training will be necessary- but how much? Is there money or time to climb a mountain? What if my mountain climbing proposal is rejected?

Eventually, however, all the stars align in one arbitrary way or another that brings the young, relatively inexperienced climber to the base of the mountain. My stars aligned recently and I found myself standing timidly at the base of my mountain. I imagine that I must feel close to what the mountain climber feels when he gazes up to see the end-game, the apex of the gargantuan mountain before him- the ultimate goal. In my case the end-game is walking into a Barnes & Noble and seeing my book nestled on the shelves among all the other "mountain peaks" my fellow authors have scaled. But for now I am only seeing that peak from a great distance, if at all, depending on the weather that day.
I imagine we're both thinking: "It's so unbelievably big! How the hell am I going to get up there?"

So, this is how the process unfolds- as I have experienced so far: I (and possibly the mountain climber) scurry around the base of the mountain frantically searching for promising spot to begin the climb. When I feel drawn to a certain location I begin to climb- well it's not really climbing at this point; it can be more accurately be described as cruising up a few foothills with all the exaggerated confidence of a true novice.
"Damn," I'm thinking at this point, "If the whole mountain is going to look like this, I'll be at the top in a year!"

It is no sooner that this idiotic notion enters my brain then I am face to face with my first wall of rock and snow. At this point I realize one of two things: either I clearly picked the wrong point of entry or I am not nearly as prepared as I thought I was for this venture- or perhaps, both. Regardless of the nature of the epiphany, it causes me to make a quick break for base camp.

"OK, I obviously need to regroup," I tell myself with a not so subtle undertone of affliction.
So I get back to basic training. I devour every possible published piece of advice to fledgling writers across the world I can get my discouraged little hands on. I read. And read. And read. I read until I fear for the health of my eyes- and my mind, for that matter- and then I go back to the mountain. I either return to my previous point of entry, strapped with the tools to conquer the snowy rock wall; or I find a new location to restart my climb- still strapped with the tools to conquer another snowy rock wall that I am now aware I will inevitably encounter.
However, even if I overcome the wall and reach the first peak I discover another wall, and another, as far up as my eyes will take me and I realize, yet again, I'm still not ready for this.

This is a cycle that has been repeating itself; sometimes over hours, sometimes days or weeks. Some days I would really like to just hurl myself off the mountain, but that wouldn't do anyone any good. The fact is, I and my mountaineer friend alike must accept that this cycle is an inescapable burden that has to be endured if we ever expect to reach the summit.

I'll tell you one thing; I'm going to get to that summit- it's just looking like it will take me a little longer than I originally anticipated.

My New "Job"

Here I sit on a cold rainy Monday afternoon, wrapped in a soft cotton blanket in the safe, comfortable familiarity of my own house and I am, for all intents and purposes, at work. In a modest-sized room in the back of my rented single-level farm house that I've turned into my office and sanctuary, I sit at my laptop, working. This is my "job" now. Some may argue that until some power-that-be is cutting me a check for the time I put into my work, I do not have myself a job- merely a hobby. Fair enough. Some days I whole-heartedly agree with those people. Then there are days that I would argue that point.

I am drawn out of bed every morning by that intangible "boss" that exists somewhere in my brain, even on the frequent mornings that I would rather sleep in, because, hey, I don't have a job to get to. That voice shakes me awake and pushes my warm feet out from under the fluffy down comforter onto the cold hard floor. I stumble into the even colder kitchen and fumble my way through the mandatory coffee making process. After eating breakfast and nursing a cup of fresh coffee, letting it begin to warm my sleepy body and shake the cobwebs out of the rest of my brain that's trying to convince me to pull a throw blanket over myself and turn on the TV, my "boss" makes me head for the office. It's about eight steps from my couch, which at least makes the commute easier. And there's my computer; my appendage for the foreseeable future.

Some mornings it eagerly awaits me and my prolific brain. We work well together; my little laptop and I. My fingers click effortlessly across the keys and I see the words, sentences, paragraphs begin to accumulate and it sends this incredible wave of satisfaction through every fragment of my being. I lose all awareness of time and sometimes space; every thought aside from the subject I'm writing about or the story I'm telling floats out of my mind and into the atmosphere around me, waiting patiently to be collected later. Eventually I'm rattled from my trance by a phone call, my husband getting home from work, or the feeling that I'm about to faint atop my keyboard because I haven't eaten in six hours. I like these days.

Then there are days my little laptop is my mortal enemy. It taunts me with a blank screen. There are no words and the computer knows it. I will stare...and stare...and stare, yet nothing appears on the screen. This is when I begin to wish I could throw my sweet little laptop out the f'ing window and forget all this "inherent calling to be a writer" bullshit and go and get a "real job". But the truth is I don't have a choice. I have come to the inescapable realization that I can't not do this (please excuse the double negative; I never claimed to be a technical writer, OK?). This is who I am- sometimes it's liberating and sometimes I truly wish I had never figured it out.

Either way it goes, this sure feels like a job to me. Maybe one day the powers-that-be will like what they see and compensate me for my hard work- maybe not. But for now I answer that "boss" every morning that draws me to this place where I sit, doing something I love for no money.