She’s killing me. My heart broke free of my chest two tracks ago, my lips are peeled back in a rictus of agony, my leg muscles are screaming. Yet I know from experience that this is the moment to push harder, dig deeper, and find that last lick of energy at the bottom of the barrel.
We finish hard and fast. Because endorphins don’t come cheap (and because I know there will be chocolate tonight).
This is the cycle – go hard, empty the tank, then refuel, to go further next time.
In writing and in life, I’ve learned to go hard even when I don’t feel like it – especially when I don’t feel like it – because that’s where the rewards are found.
When I look back on some of my toughest times writing – a scathing manuscript appraisal before I was published and two grueling structural edits on Intruder – I am grateful that I didn’t give up. That I pushed through.
It has taken six years and four books to learn that persistence pays. In the past twelve months, I’ve been invited to four Writers Festivals, two educational conferences, three Writer-in-Residencies and I’ve spoken to more than five thousand students from more than fifty schools.
While hubba hubby was off surfing in the Maldives, I took myself and the three youngest on a family holiday.
We read books. Chased waterfalls. Mountain biked down a volcano. Rode elephants. Walked down and back up a thousand steps to go rafting. Cooked and ate Balinese food. Laughed and had fun.
The tank is officially refilled. And now I’m ready to go hard again.