When I was little my dad would say, “Hey Kelly, make a muscle.”
Proud of my gymnastics guns, I’d cock my arm.
“Make a muscle,” he’d say again.
I’d squeeze harder, tremble with effort, get red in the face from holding my breath.
“Make a muscle.”
“I…(gasp)…am!”
“C’mon, Kelly. Make a muscle. I want to see it.”
I’d let out my breath and drop my arm and snarl that I was making a muscle.
Dad was funny.
He had to be. My dad’s life was one neverending “muscle” as he solo-parented two kids under age five, went to college on the GI bill, and worked third shift. Third shift was so he could pay a highschool kid to sleep at our home. I wonder, which was harder: Vietnam or single-parenting in the 70’s?
I don’t recall my dad complaining about his military service, his work, his life, being tired, or overwhelmed. Bodybuilders lift tons of weights day in and day out in relative obscurity. Why? So they can make a muscle and be hailed as a work of art. My dad lifted, lifted, lifted, and he never once made a muscle or asked the world to pat him on the back and tell him good job. He was never like, oh this is soooo hard. Notice me.
Writers are making muscles, ever hoping our grit and labor will get us a spot on the grand stage. That there’ll be ooohs and ahhhs. I’m not ashamed of wanting a long reach. If I didn’t think I had something to say, I wouldn’t be a writer.
But what I get is: I said, make a muscle.
I am… I whine. Can’t you see my red face, the sweat, the tears?
Er. Nope. Make a muscle. (You publish anything? Make any money?)
In my early writing days, I was a validation junkie. I was walking around making muscles, hoping they were big and impressive. I wanted likes and comments and of course publication. I was doing flash fiction and short stories. I’d started two novels and gave up because no one was asking to read them. No college professor was grading them.
At some point it became clear that if I wanted to write a novel, I would do it in silence. There would be no applause. No A+. But oh, how I wanted people to know the writer’s struggle. Just ask the bazillion posts I wrote that could be titled: Oh this is soooo hard. Notice me. (I didn’t become my dad.) But there were also the magical moments when I lost myself in the practice of writing, when time disappeared because I was caught up in the world I created.
See the picture below? This was taken last March when my husband and I walked the Whiskey Island Trail to Lake Erie. The moment I saw the foundation stone, I knew I wanted it to be my I-Overcame Picture. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion: when I got agented. Getting an agent is a big step for a writer. In Horror Writers of America, it means the difference between being an Affilate Member and an Active Member. As of today, I am NOT agented.
I realized that if – after writing three full-length novels, scads of stories, and parrying more than a hundred rejections – I don’t already see myself as worthy of the picture, I never will.
So, bam.
KL Griffiths 
Love this! The pic, the story of your dad. The analogy. All of it. The trouble is I think most writers are the please tell me I got an A+ and “embarrass” me in front of the class types. We seek that validation but aren’t always good at building ourselves up. Also, our culture tells us we need pats on the back, like right now! One of the first literary conferences I went to I asked about publishing a fiction chapbook. The panelist replied with a confused face: why, just write, he said. It’ll be a collection in the long run. You will get there, Kelly, because you get this. You get that it’s a long slog. And you’re doing the work to beef up those muscles. Also, I want your muscles!
Ah yes. The shy student who secretly wants fame. I was a bad kid in school. All I wanted to do was get in trouble. But in college I was that one, the silent worker. I remember one girl in my John Donne class wrote an essay that got her marked for some honor or another. I was crazy jealous. When we know the common struggle, it helps me rejoice for a fellow writer in those mountaintop moments.
An insightful and encouraging as ever…i do admire your persistence and love of what u do.
Thank you, Michael. And thank you for all the smiles and belly laughs.
This is terrific. Inspiring and foundational. We do what we do because we love it.
You hit the nail. Best wishes to you!
And you to. 🙂
I loved the shape of this story. That ending was wonderful. And yes, while we write in silence, we definitely do wish more people noticed our plight. I can definitely relate to your writing three manuscripts and still having to deal with rejections. Wishing you all the best on your writing journey!
It’s good to hear from someone else in the same trench. I wish you well, too. 🙂
You are worthy. I see your muscle!
Thanks! How could my dad NOT notice them, eh? Haha.
Impressive muscles. And inspiring post. ❤
Thanks! I don’t know where those arms came from…
Super inspiring! Just know that you “make a muscle” every time you keep pressing forward, with every word on the page, every time you meet with your writer friends and critique, every time you get up, every time you submit something! You got this, girl!
Thanks to a sweet friend and fellow muscle-maker who shows the way forward! xoxo