Jennifer Shaw

Hey there! I hope you’re well.

Last Friday, after a solid two days of good snow here in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, hubby Jer suggested we go up to Burke Mountain while our daughter, Daphne, was at school.

We are lucky enough to live about fifteen minutes from a ski resort.

“Sure,” I said.

Jer snowboards and I ski. We have midweek season passes, so we try to get up there as often as the weather and his schedule will allow us.

“Let’s go.”

I’m still a newbie skier, even after almost four years here, so I stick to the bunny hills (or the Learning Area as they’re officially called). I learned the fundamentals on those shallow, short runs pretty quickly back in 2022–“pizza pie” and “french fry,” as the instructors like to say, meaning how to V my skis so I didn’t zoom straight down, and how to bend my leading knee, shift my weight, and use the edges on both skis to move into a parallel position to turn as needed. I’d been working on my form and control ever since, but only on those easy, inviting hills.

I used to flatter myself that I had an aptitude for this particular snow sport. My “Never Ever” first lesson instructor, after all, praised my ability to keep my balance while maneuvering up the magic carpet and around on the snow. He was a handsome young man who made me sound like I was exceptional, bless his heart.

I figured he must be right about my talent because after that first day, I could get down the baby bunny hill just fine. True, my form wasn’t great yet, but I wasn’t falling all over myself, either. I was enjoying it, too.

My hubris peaked in January of 2023 when, after two quick runs down the beginner hill on our first visit of that season, I thought, I’ve got this. Time to try a real run. It’ll be a piece of cake.

So up I went on the lift with hubby, laughing and carefree, swinging my skied feet over the ground dropping far away, ready to feel the wind on my face as I experienced some real speed.

I even got off the lift without falling, rare for first timers, apparently.

Yep, I was that good.

At the top, I took off beside hubby.

Even though that was a green run, meaning the easiest of all the mountain slopes (aside from the beginner’s area), I was only upright on my skis for a minute. After that, the gravity of a much, much longer slope took over, and my speed multiplied. Exponentially. I found myself zooming downward with absolutely no control.

Without the skill or strength yet to slow myself quickly and intentionally (or the confidence to maintain the correct position), I flailed and tumbled over. I wasn’t hurt, but it completely psyched me out. Each time I tried to get up (which is hard on slippery skis when you’re forty-one years old and everything’s angled downward), I fell yet again.

I just could not stay upright.

Needless to say, I devolved into a trembling, frazzled mess. I had to unclip my skis and hike my way down like a total idiot. Worst of all, this debacle took place directly beneath the lift, so everyone and their snow dog could see me.

I was furious with Jer, who’d eagerly encouraged me to go up with him. “That slope’s really no different than the bunny hill,” he’d said.

No different my ass.

I didn’t speak to him for the rest of that day.

So that was my first–and only–attempt at a true run.

But that was two years ago.

Fast-forward again to last Friday. Now, after four runs down the baby bunny hill (and three winters of skiing), I was feeling oriented and strong. I had my ski legs back. The snow was sticky, and the beginner’s area was boring me, quite frankly. I figured, if I’m going to try the real slope again, today’s the day.

I pushed past the sickness in my stomach and made my way over to the lift with Jer.

At least I’m not being a coward, I thought.

Up we went. I fought a slight dizziness–I’ve developed a bit of anxiety about heights. I got off the lift pretty easily and told my husband not to wait for me, no matter what happened. I’d be ok, and it wouldn’t help anything if he tried to stop and wait for me on his snowboard, which would be difficult for him balance-wise.

I took off carefully. I’m happy to report that, as I picked up speed, I didn’t panic. I kept my knees bent and my posture forward, telling myself this was ok. I know my form was much better than it was when I first tried the slope a couple years ago.

My mistake was making my turns too narrow. I will need to do that eventually, but skill-wise I’m not there yet. What I should have done was zig-zag all the way across the run all the way down, to keep my speed manageable, but I was afraid I’d be in everyone else’s way. Ultimately, I did pick up more speed than I was comfortable with, and I got scared, shifted upright, and lost my balance. I struggled again to get upright, so I unclipped my skis. I did try to get them back on so I could make another attempt, but I couldn’t get my boot locked into one of them. I ended up unclipping the other ski and hiking the rest of the way down.

But, I made it halfway down the real slope that time. And, none of it terrified me the way it did the first time.

This is progress, I thought.

When we left the mountain at noon, I was happy I’d at least made another attempt.

“I’m proud of you,” Jer said. “Just keeping working on it. Don’t stay on the bunny hill. That might be easier and a lot more comfortable, but now, it’s not helping you progress.” He gave me a pointed look. “It’s just not long enough to pick up the amount of speed you’ll need in order to practice controlling it.”

He was right.

And, that day on the slope got me thinking in a new way about my writing journey. How, for me, learning to ski has become a lot like learning how to write fiction.

I’ve been working a lot in the last year on short stories, growing in my technique and effectiveness and having some success with minor publications. But when I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that my long-term goal is to write a well-crafted novel that engages my target audience. If I can produce just one such novel in my lifetime, that will help me die happy.

A novel is not a short story. The skillset is a little (or maybe a lot) different.

If I keep spending more time on my short pieces, I won’t get any better at longform, and that’s really where I want to end up.

So, that Friday on Burke was a strong reminder to get back to the zero draft of my novel. To get it done by the end of this month, without letting new short story ideas distract me. I’m almost there.

Objectively, I know this first novel is not a great story. Nothing about it, bless its heart, is enough. It will not be My Book. It will not even be my debut novel. I have no plans to self-publish it, and I would never query it. It is, simply, a newbie author’s first attempt at a long-form manuscript. Maybe it’s this knowledge that’s partly holding me back. Knowing I will have spent hundreds of hours on something I will never “properly share” makes me wonder if it’s worth it.

Logically-speaking, however, I know that if I can finish it, and figure out how to maximize my learning from it (through some kind of systematic self-revision and/or formalized feedback, maybe in the form of an assessment edit), it will go a long way in helping me write another, better novel. And that one, if it’s not The One (it probably won’t be), will also go a long way toward helping me write the one that will ultimately make me proud. The one I will either query or feel enough confidence in to spend the significant money self-publishing.

It will be worth it.

I have to do it to get better at it.

Just like I have to keep going up the lift and down that “real” slope to learn how to navigate a true mountain without losing all control.

My previous attempts at novel writing have definitely made me feel rather out of control. I’ve started well but ended up exhausted and flailing. I’m flailing a bit now with this one that’s nearly done. It was previously a haunted house novella that I decided to expand, and the expansions have been great exercises in scene/character/POV development. But, I don’t love the story. The passion is gone, the antagonist is weak, and often it feels difficult to add quality words (even though my plan only calls for about 400 per weekday to meet my end-of-month goal).

I keep telling myself, though, that it doesn’t need to be good, or even decent. Especially given that it’s a zero draft, which is never supposed to be good. It just needs to be me figuring out the entire story. It just needs to be a way to practice longform development as I build my stamina. I can improve it at my leisure later. This is what will help me make real progress toward my ultimate goal.

Novel writing feels a lot more painful than shortform writing. I’m not getting the quicker gratification I’ve gotten from taking short pieces all the way through the writing process at a much faster pace.

It’s certainly a lot more disorienting and exhausting.

But I need to keep going.

This isn’t a perfect analogy, but I need to spend time off the writer’s bunny hill. Staying on the easier, simpler, shorter-form slope isn’t going to help me develop the skills I need for the one that’s much longer, where that learning curve is so much steeper.

It’s ok to fall down, too. It doesn’t hurt, and no one really cares, either. No one’s paying attention, and right now, that’s a good thing. I just need to claw my way back up, strap those metaphorical skis back on, and keep going.

What do you think?

If any writer friends have any advice or encouragement, I’d love to hear it!

And speaking of you all, how is your winter going, my friends? Do you have any favorite sports or activities you save for this time of year? Anything that helps you battle the occasional seasonal depression?

See you next week!

XOXO,

Jenn