If you’re just joining me, I’ve been watching a lot of, first collegiate, then NHL playoff hockey recently. Not long after the Denver Pioneers won their 11th national championship, the Colorado Avalanche began their playoff run. The Avs just finished their sweep of the Kings and are awaiting the outcome of the series between the Wild and the Stars.
If you watch a hockey team long enough, there comes a point when you don’t have to read the numbers or the names on the back of sweaters to know who is on the ice. This isn’t just about recognizing the normal lines that a coach organizes, the size and shape of each athlete, the position they play, where they tend to be on the ice. A player can be recognized by other habits too. Maybe they are known for their bursts of high speed, favorite places to shoot, willingness to drop gloves, crease protection style, the ways they deke.
Like hockey players, writers develop habits too.
Earlier this year, I started rereading a writing craft book that I haven’t touched in about three years. I quickly remembered what I liked about the book and what had resonated with me before, and I noticed different bits that stood out to me now. Then, suddenly, I stalled out, put the book down for weeks, and struggled to read it or anything else. I had forgotten something about myself. There are points in my writing process when it’s better for me not to let other writers’ tactics and opinions into my awareness.
When I was working toward my MFA in Creative Writing, one commonly traded phrase was “process is personal.” Even if we all were trying to write “the same” story, not only will our finished stories and styles differ, but the ways in which we operate to get those words on the page will differ too. Some work in the evening, the morning, every tiny opportunity. Some meet the page every day, are weekend warriors, have no specific schedule. Some dictate, type, write their first drafts by hand. Some like silence, music, coffee shop ambience. Some create in-depth outlines, plan merely the broad strokes, improvise the whole way through.
Several Avalanche players have well-known habits. Nathan MacKinnon may have one of the most intense off-ice regimens in the hockey world. Cale Makar has a specific routine during pregame warmups. Scott Wedgewood researches his opponents and can recite each player’s dominant hand among other details.
Before Johnny “Bricks” Hicks guarded the Denver Pioneers’ net, there was Matty Davis. I haven’t had the privilege of watching him play lately, but when he was a Pioneer, Matt Davis had a habit of bringing his catching glove over to his blocker and clapping after he protected our net and play continued without a stoppage. Since then, I’ve seen a number of other goaltenders who share this habit, but back then, I connected this act to my writing life.
When I first noticed Matty’s habit, I was in the thick of writing a novel, and I was struggling. Being hard on myself has always been much easier than congratulating myself for doing the work, the quality of my work, or how hard I’m working. I’m often convinced that I’m that not doing enough, that I could do more, and do it faster and better.
When I was watching the Winter Olympics back in February, like many people, I was inspired by Alysa Liu. Immediately after that, I intended to incorporate more fun into my life, but I have neglected that habit lately. Maybe someday I could ask Davis whether his clapping is a conscious habit and what it means to him. To me, Matty’s clapping is a combination of acknowledging the work he’s doing and self-encouragement to keep going. I need habits that remind me of all those things: I am doing the work, I am doing a good job, I will keep working, and I can have fun at the same time.
I’ll keep you posted on my writing life and pursuit of publication, and as always, LET’S GO PIOS! GO AVS GO!
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