I started working on my memoir back in 2017. Over the years, I’ve transcribed my trail journals. Outlined my story. Written several rough drafts. Taken God-knows-how-many classes and workshops to make it better. Plotted its arc using index cards, push pins and string on a massive corkboard that looks like a serial killer murder map on my living room wall.
Every January, starting in 2018, I have vowed “This is the year I will finish.” And yet, my manuscript feels miles away from being done.
I recently read Brandi Carlile’s memoir Broken Horses. I loved her honesty, her distinct voice, her humility. The singer-songwriter’s book was intimate and unvarnished, and I rooted for that scrappy kid on every page. Already a huge fan of Carlile’s music, I felt more connected to her as a person after reading her memoir, and I knew the world was a better place with Brandi Carlile in it.
But when I slid Broken Horses onto my bookshelf with my other beloved titles, I couldn’t help but grumble, “You little shit.”
I wasn’t jealous of Carlile’s life or success or the book itself. Rather, I marveled at how FAST she wrote her gorgeous memoir. In a 2021 interview with Vulture, she gave the impression it took less than one year. One year. I’ve been working on my book for five, and I wondered, “Why am I so slow?”
As luck would have it, right around the time I finished reading Broken Horses and was wrestling with fast-writer envy, I was also working on a chapter in my memoir about a day I had spent leap-frogging with four other hikers. Three were significantly faster than me, and one was quite a bit slower, but we all ended up at the same watering hole at the end of the day. In the chapter, I explored a well-known saying in the hiking community:
HIKE YOUR OWN HIKE.
Meaning, don’t try to follow someone else’s plan or pace. Stop comparing yourself to others. Just hike in the way that’s right for you.
If you talk to ten different people about the right speed to hike, gear to use, time to start, or trail snacks to eat, you’re bound to get ten different opinions. I’m guilty of comparing my hiking and writing styles to others. Of ruthlessly questioning myself. Of letting my insecurities distract me from enjoying the journey itself.
Writing a book is a lot like thru-hiking the Colorado Trail. It’s a long haul. A humbling mental and physical test of endurance, one step at a time, over time. It’s about falling down and getting back up. Putting my blood, sweat and tears into something and seeing it through, at a pace that feels right for me.
This year, when an author passes me on the memoir-writing trail, I will gently remind myself it’s not a race … that I’ve come so far already … that I will finish, eventually. And I will cheer them on. If it takes one person six months to write a memoir, and it takes me six years to write mine, then so be it. We will both arrive at the same watering hole, and have a book in our hands, at the end of the day.
Just hike your own hike, Becky.
Today, as I write this, I like to imagine Brandi Carlile as a fellow thru-hiker on the CT. She’s made it to the end of the trail, and she’s waiting for me to catch up and join her at the campfire. When I finally make it, she will hand me a cold beer, and you won’t be able to wipe the smiles off our faces. We’ll toast the sisterhood of the trail. We’ll toast our strong finishes. And we’ll toast the same hard-won mileage we both put in to get there.
And, of course, I’ll ask to sing songs around the campfire. Because, holy shit, I’m hanging out with Brandi fucking Carlile!