I’m worried that I may never sell another book. No, it’s stronger than that. I’m terrified. More than anything else in the world, I want to write and publish books. At times it becomes such an overwhelming distraction that it bleeds into all other facets of my life. Whatever small successes I might experience here and there, I still feel like a failure.

It’s been the source of too many unhealthy emotions for too long: bitterness, anger, cynicism, envy, defeat, self-doubt. But no matter how many times I decide to leave it behind, I always fall back into the same old routine, for better or worse.

They say it’s the persistent ones who ultimately succeed. The ones who don’t give up, who keep trying in the face of terrible odds, who pick themselves up after a defeat and try again. There’s a word for that (a word other than obstinate or naïve or just plain foolhardy).

Resilient.

I saw a news segment recently about a new book called Type R: Transformative Resilience for Thriving in a Turbulent World, by Ama Marston and Stephanie Marston. The authors propose that the most resilient people are those who will be most successful in life. I’ve added the book to my reading pile, because the idea makes perfect sense.

So does being resilient—trying and trying, bouncing back after every setback—guarantee that I’ll ever publish again?

No.

But it does guarantee that even if I never reach my goal, at least I can say I did everything in my power to make it happen. It means I have no intention of giving up. But it also means that I need a reliable, alternate source of success in my life. I realized a long time ago that focusing on writing to the exclusion of all else is not healthy for me. So I’ve tried spending time on other pursuits, though it’s been a struggle to find the right fit. Every time, I end up viewing the new job or hobby or project as a distraction; as time that could be better spent writing. It’s a vicious circle.

And then, this past week, I finally found it. I did something I didn’t want to do, didn’t think I could ever, ever do without making a complete fool of myself.

I went to a weight training class. Twice! And I’m going back again this week. Now, I have to clarify that a good friend is in the class. She played a huge role in getting me there, assuring me that it was low pressure, that everyone was nice and non-judgy, that I could go at my own pace. Still I was braced to discard it as another failed distraction.

Instead, I felt proud of myself. In control of my own success. And I felt…strong. Also really sore.

Writing is a beast. I can’t claim that I’m in it purely for the joy of creation. I crave professional success. I’d love to make a decent living at it. Mostly I want to reach young readers with my stories. So, since it seems that writing and I are stuck with each other for the long haul, I’m over the moon that I’ve found my path to resilience, and hopeful it will carry me through the inevitable ups and downs.

Maybe I’ll even end up healthier along the way.

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