Recently, my uncle sent me a devotion regarding the value of persistence. When thinking through what might make for a good inaugural post for this website, my mind returned to the phrase he used in his message: to “keep chopping wood.”
Keep Chopping Wood...
I like that phrase. Now, it’s not a new thought— “a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” anyone? But it has an earthy, down-home feel to it that harkens back to my Midwest roots. It’s evocative and inescapably practical. Keep chopping wood. Continue working (even if the work is hard) until the job is done. It captures what's required to write a complete story—be it novel, short story, or something in between.
But honestly, when I hear “keep chopping wood,” I don’t picture wood or axe in my mind. And I (usually) don’t think of the unfortunate incident where the phrase added injury to insult during an early-aughts Jacksonville Jaguars season.
...Or Baling Hay
What I see is a bright bowl of cloudless sky. A hot sun. And a freshly shorn field lined with squat, rectangular hay bales. Hundreds of ‘em. If not thousands.
I worked on a farm as a summer job in high school. One of the jobs—though, mercifully, not the only one—was to bale hay, which was used to feed the livestock. Now, sometimes hay is baled into big cylinders which require a tractor and special trailers to transport. But for the smaller bales, the process consisted of a couple guys and a truck with a flatbed trailer.
Generally, here’s how the process went: one guy (usually the one with seniority) drove the truck through the field, very slowly. Another guy walked alongside the truck, tossing up bales to the third, who stacked them on the trailer. Once the truck was full, you drove it back to the barn and unloaded everything. Then, you went back to the field to collect another load. So on and so forth.
It was exhausting work, especially in the hot and humid summers of the Sunflower State.
Keep Writing
But what does any of this have to do with writing?
Well, looking out over those fields, especially at the start, with a thousand hay bales stretching off into the horizon—it felt daunting. Hopeless, even. How could anyone possibly collect all those bales?
One bale at a time.
How could I possibly write a novel?
One page, one paragraph, one sentence, one word at a time.
Conclusion
Writing a story is not for the faint-hearted. It’s a commitment. But it can be done. I didn’t know I had it in me until I did it. I believe you can, too. You just have to keep going. The only person who can stop you from writing is you.
Keep writing. Keep chopping wood...or baling hay. 😊
—A.E.
Just keep swimming... :)