How a Writer is Like a Field Goal Kicker

I was thinking the other day that writers are a lot like field goal kickers. It seems like an odd analogy, but let me run with it. (Oh my. I made a little pun there and didn't even intend to.)

For those who aren't sports enthusiasts, a field goal kicker is a specialized player of American-style football. They are the guy who doesn't play for most of the game and only trots out onto the field when their team has failed to score a touchdown. They are sort of like the last resort for their team to score some points before turning the ball over to the other team. Their job is to kick the ball through the uprights or goal posts. If the ball goes too far left or right--no points. If the ball goes through, they settle for three points instead of the seven you get for a touchdown.

So far it's not very much like a writer. The field goal kicker comes in and makes three points--or doesn't. How is that like what writers do?

Let me go on ...

The field goal kicker is part of the team--yet not. He doesn't play the whole game. Sometimes his specialized services are never needed at all for the whole sixty minutes. Usually he only plays for a few minutes at most. The rest of the team, quarterbacks, linemen, running backs, tightends, work together to score. He sits on the bench. Or kicks footballs into a net to warm up his leg.

Still not much like a writer, though we do work alone.

So usually the field goal kicker doing his thing is sort of a letdown. The team gets three points instead of the more coveted seven. Things could be better. They could be even worse if he misses. BUT sometimes things are different.

Every once in a while, the time in the game is running out. The losing team has the ball. That team is less than three points behind. There's no time for a touchdown. There are only seconds remaining. They send in the field goal kicker. And suddenly this player who isn't usually part of the game is the only player who matters.

That's when the field goal kicker must show his stuff.

And usually he can see it coming. He sits on the sidelines and knows it's going to come down to him. He alone will decide whether the ENTIRE team wins or loses. He alone decides the fate by whether his kick is true.

The other team will call a time out to try and ice him. By making the field goal kicker wait for the time out to end, they hope to play upon his nerves and cause him to miss. They want to make very sure he feels every bit of the pressure thrust upon him and only him.

And there, my friends, is when a field goal kicker is like a writer. For a writer, too, must be that special sort of someone that cannot be iced. When a review is bad, a writer must stay calm and not react. 

When a rejection arrives, a writer must bury that and maintain the course.

When the edit letter says chop pages or chapters, a writer must face it down and find how to make it work.

A writer must have ice in their veins. They cannot be rattled (in public). The writer must stare down that other team (critics) and face those uprights (doubts) and kick that ball through (keep writing). 

And that is how a writer is like a field goal kicker. Play on, my friends!

Meeting Fear and Overcoming

Fear. It can stop us in our tracks. We were talking about it over on the Writer Diaries this week. How to move face the fear.

I've known some writers that let pressures keep them from moving forward. Whether that is the inside pressure of trying to make everything absolutely perfect so that they never finish editing, or the fear of rejection that keeps someone from querying. Sometimes fear can bring dreams to a halt. And that's just a shame.

Time to go into the personal and say I know a little something about sheer fear. When I first started writing, like many people, I was anxious about sharing my work with others. I worried someone could steal  my words or that they would find it terrible. They did in fact find it terrible in those days and justifiably so. But that is not where my fear came from. Nor is it the terror I meet every morning when my alarm goes off.

It started about six years ago. My beautiful daughter went off to her first day of high school. It seemed to go fine. The next morning she woke with a panic attack and an absolute refusal to go to school. Her whole body shut down. She couldn't talk. She couldn't tell us what was wrong or what was scaring her. She curled into a ball and cried. We were mystified. Nothing started it. No bullies. There was no reason behind it. She was just filled with overwhelming anxiety and it center on school. 

So began weeks of visits to doctors and discussions with school officials. Various medications and therapy sessions. Nothing worked. Hubs and I were very concerned that we couldn't let Daughter give into this anxiety. That she go to school as much as possible. The school and her doctors agreed. The medicine wasn't working.  Though her brain understood there was nothing to fear about school, her body was flooded with panic and it couldn't be shut off. The only way for her to move forward was to face it.

But she couldn't face it. And so the battle for our daughter began. It was up to her family to help her through this and that meant forcing her to go to school. Every morning we begged, reasoned, and downright fought her to get her out the door. Often she had to be carried by Hubs into the building kicking and fighting with help from guidance counselors and attendance officers. Other days she threw up from the anxiety. Most days she spent ninety percent of her time in the nurse's office, physically sick. Many times I had to leave work or send her grandmother to pick her up early.

Then my father helped out. She responded best to her grandfather's relentless insistence. Dad come over early every morning and gradually she began walking into the building on her own--somewhat better but still not good.  Hubs was able to go to work on time, which was important as he is our main source of income. Still she argued and begged not to go, crying in a way that tore our hearts. It was hard. Impossibly hard, but it was about to get harder for me.

My father spends his winters in Arizona. Months had passed and it was time for him to go. He was reluctant and delayed a few weeks, but it was unfair to keep him. I had to take over the struggle so Hubs no longer missed work. With daughter somewhat better, it all fell on me to not only get her to school, but also her younger brother, and still make it to my own work on time.

The toughest days of my life thus far began. I woke every morning terrified I'd let Daughter down and not be strong enough to get her into the school. I was destroyed by our family being in such turmoil and it was hard to be so cruel and insistent. She had good days and bad days. Sometimes she'd step right out of the car. Sometimes I'd have to coax and coax and call the counselors for help. We argued. We yelled. We hugged. We reassured. She still struggled. 

I feared my shoulders weren't strong enough. As spring grew closer, the routine gave her some comfort. Whatever panic switch had been turned on in her body dulled. She stayed in class longer. Spent less time with the nurse. Her grades went from Fs to Cs. But the fear over months of never knowing each morning whether she'd have a good day or a bad day stayed.   

Daughter gradually got better. She held on hard to her boyfriend's support. He lived close to school and I started dropping her there so she could walk in with him. It helped. She took interest in friends and life again. She got through high school, though with difficulty (such as she couldn't face taking her SAT test.) On the positive side, she even went to Japan with her language group. Six years later, she has managed to start at community college so she can live at home, and she has a job. We're so proud of her. But...

Every morning when my alarm goes off at six am, the terror is in my gut. For me, the fear remains. Every day I face it again, even though there is no longer any need. The cause is gone, but physical dread remains. SIX YEARS LATER. It vanishes once I get up and moving, but no amount of reasoning does away with it completely. It greets me each day. The fear that I won't get her to school. That I'll fail. 

With God's help and love, Daughter beat it and won. I beat it and won. With more time, it will end entirely. But for now I understand sheer fear. I couldn't be happier that we faced it down. Maybe that's why I have little hesitation with my writing career and where my willingness to try new things comes from. Doubts remain but moving forward is a breeze compared to that year.

Everyone has their own brand of fear to face. You can do it, too. Don't let it stop your dreams. 

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I look forward to seeing you all for Sun versus Snow in January!