I’ve been trying to write a publishable novel for a long time. The desire goes back to junior high school, and I kept at it for decades. I’ve tried my hand at fantasy, science fiction, and mystery. Many attempts were awful, but I learned from each one and I always hoped that eventually the effort would pay off. I’d walk into a bookstore and see my name on the shelf. And then one day last month, I decided to quit.
One of the earliest lessons I was taught as a child was to never quit. I probably learned, “A winner never quits, and quitters never win” before I heard the Golden Rule. It was drummed into me that once you go after something, you keep at it. Being a “quitter” was disgraceful.
The upshot is that I’ve stuck with a lot of things. Some were good. Halfway through my master’s program, I became discouraged and wanted to drop out. The same with my pursuit of becoming a Professional Scrum Trainer. In both cases, I believed so strongly that the goal was worthwhile that it carried me through. In both cases, I was right. Somehow, my Masters in English got me my first job in software development. And becoming a PST was a big milestone for me, one I’m still proud of.
But I also stuck with some things I shouldn’t have. “A winner never quits,” I’d tell myself, and try to make a toxic relationship work long after it was obvious to everyone else that it was doomed. Sometimes, I persevered in terrible jobs, determined to “win,” without ever thinking about what winning meant.
And so it was with writing novels. I stopped enjoying doing it years ago, but I kept at it. I said I would, so I had to. And there were times when I did find satisfaction. A well-turned phrase, a scene that felt magical. But those times were fewer and farther between. More often, I resented the time I was spending on it because it was keeping me from doing something else. The day it really hit home was when I took a break from editing my latest effort and looked out the window. As I looked at the overgrowth around the chaise lounges at the end of the pool, I resented having let the yard go.
I hate yard work.
I hate yard work and yet I wanted to do that more than spend another minute working on that novel. It was time to stop. Time to quit.
I expected to feel anxiety. I expected to feel shame. I expected to be depressed.
I felt free.
It was like I’d been carrying around a huge load for a long time and only realized how heavy it was when I put it down.
Since then, I’ve experimented with a short memoir, a couple of personal essays, and a political commentary piece. I’ve cleaned up a lot of the yard and spent time in my wood shop getting it back in shape. I’m at peace with my decision, and more content than I’ve been in a long time.
Sometimes, winning is quitting.
Semantics & So On 