The figure skaters at the World Championship competition, held this past week in London, Ontario, are the top skaters in the world. And they fall. They fall on their bums in front of a packed stadium, eyes upon them, and in front of TV cameras that represent the millions watching from home. They work all year–for years–for the 3 minute short program and 6 minute free skate. They are young, they defy gravity, and they fall.
At least as a writer I get the chance to revise. Being a writer is more like being a hockey player. There are good games and bad games. Sometimes you’re on, and sometimes you’re off. You get to the playoffs or you don’t. You keep playing. Because you love it.
Being a writer is sometimes lonely and sad: you’ve got no chance for a gold medal or the Stanley Cup; the Prime Minister of your country does not write a book about you. But on the flip side, you don’t get concussions and best of all you don’t fall on your bum in front of millions of people.
You can be eighty years old, like Alice Munro, and publish another good book. That is something to aspire to.