noodle days

dedicated to the days where progress feels impossible, like trying to scoop a wet spaghetti noodle with a spoon

Sometimes I go climbing to yell at the wall.

I hang there in the balance of being belayed, my weight tethered to some rope and a harness.

My husband always checks in with me before I start one of the harder climbs—“Are you going to get mad at this one if you can’t finish it?”—to which I indignantly respond no, when deep down I know that the answer is a resounding yes.

For you see, some days my arms are noodles, while on others they are strong and invincible tree trunks with popping green veins to boot.

The days when my arms feel like wet noodles are the hardest. They are merely there to stick to the wall and nothing more: not a single additional purpose than to just hang there. You would think that I’d know a noodle day before I get there, but it’s something that only shows itself when I start to climb. Not a second before.

Halfway up—

Are we in pain? I ask my arms.

Are we giving up? I knock at my mind.

Are we feeling okay? I assess my body.

I need to get to the top, I whisper.

On these days, nobody wins and all I’ve done is make a fool out of myself and yell at some rocks.

I wish I could say this feeling was unique to climbing, but it is anything but new. My novel and I have a similar relationship.

More often than not, I’m (metaphorically) yelling and praying that words will magically spill onto the screen. On these noodle days, I don’t know where the plot is going. I don’t know what the words on the screen are saying. I don’t know what my main character is doing.

You can’t force creativity, I convince myself.

You have to give yourself a break, I remind myself.

Even days that I don’t write a word are important, I tell myself.

But I quit my job for this, I whisper. 

Yelling at a wall is easier than yelling at myself.

So after I throw a temper tantrum in the air and as my husband lowers me from the wall, I breathe and collect myself. Climbing, writing are some of those things where you have to believe in their value before seeing the results. This is the nature of the game and the medal goes to the one who can hold out the longest, in the discomfort, doubt, and soreness. There is nothing easy or sanity-producing when pursuing something without immediate results.

No amount of oo’ing and aww’ing over its novelty can ease the sting of the unknowing.

So I will continue to yell at the wall,

so that I can get through the noodle days unscathed and ready to tackle the next.

Anyone want to yell at the wall with me?