One Bite at a Time

I am a Post-it note quote queen.

I have 23 of them stuck to the wall behind my desk, some with my favorite quotes from people who inspire me — Paulo Coelho, Tupac Shakur, Robin Williams — others with silly little quotes of my own, one with a quote from a softball coach I had when I was 12 years old.

“One bite at a time,” it says in big, bold lettering, the Post-it note tucked carefully between Maya Angelou and Cheryl Strayed— the perfect place for me to see it every time I look up from my yellow notepad during my early morning writing sessions.

My coach’s name was Doug, and he was kind of a weird dude. A good dude, but a weird dude. He was chubby, with too-tight ball shorts, a thick goatee, and an affinity for taking our games far too seriously, which is to say he was a Quintessential Softball Dad.

I played on the CT. Eliminators, a quote unquote pre-Olympic team, otherwise known as a group of moderately talented softball players whose parents were willing to pay ridiculous sums of money so their daughters could travel all over the east coast for tournaments every weekend.

We were good, sure, but we weren’t that good, and when we played against girls from Tennessee and Florida and Kentucky, our mediocrity showed. At bat, we’d watch strike after strike go by, occasionally swinging weakly and making contact, but never quite striking the ball hard enough to get it through the infield.

And, when it was the other team’s turn to bat, we’d get trampled. Line drive to left center, ground ball up the middle, bunt down the third base line. Bases loaded triple, and…repeat.

This would go on inning after inning, and soon we’d be down 13–1 feeling equal parts dejected and apathetic, wanting nothing more than to just pack up our bat bags and head back to the hotel for a swim. Of course we couldn’t quit, though, because we were pre-Olympians, and pre-Olympians didn’t quit.

Oh no.

Pre-Olympians made comebacks.

Around the fifth inning or so when it was our turn to bat, Coach Doug would call all 13 of his Eliminators into a huddle right outside the dugout. We always looked exhausted, dirt coating our uniforms, the war paint beneath our eyes smudged, our matching french braids no longer intact.

But, to Doug, we looked like warriors ready for battle.

“I know we’re down big time,” he’d say, peering into our eyes and pausing every few words for emphasis, “but this game is not over. You hear me? The game is not over.”

We’d nod, scared to do anything else, and he’d continue.

“Now, on three, I want you to tell me, how do you eat an elephant?”

He’d smile his goofy little elephant-eating smile and plunge his fist into the center of our huddle, waiting for us to follow suit. Reluctantly, one by one, we’d put our hands on top of his, and he’d count,

One…

Two…

Three…

“ONE BITE AT A TIME!”

we’d shout, throwing our fists in the air. And then we’d laugh and grab our bats and get ready to make the biggest comeback of our lives the only way we knew how: hit by hit, stolen base by stolen base, run by run.

It was silly, using elephant eating as a metaphor for making a comeback in softball, but it worked. We didn’t always win, but we did usually string together some hits. Sometimes, even some runs. And we had fun with it, because it no longer seemed like there was this enormous pressure on us to score 13 runs in one inning. All we had to do was focus on getting one hit at a time, and the rest would follow.

My softball days have long since ended. I decided not to play in college, and seeing as softball is no longer even an Olympic sport, the whole pre-Olympic thing never really had a chance to play out. But Doug’s words have stayed with me all this time, and have even managed to make it on my Post-it note quote wall of fame, not because they’re wise or profound or on par with my boy Tupac, but because I believe in them.

I believe in the power of eating the elephant — of breaking a seemingly insurmountable task into small parts and tackling each part with energy and determination. I saw what it could do for me when I was a 12-year-old battling a Tennessee lefty for a base hit, and I see what it can do for me now.

I’ve been working on a book for a few months. It’s a fun book, and one that I’m writing for no reason other than because I want to, but, like any sort of long term project, it’s still a lot of work. And, at times, no matter how strong my vision is and no matter how much progress I’ve already made, the work still feels daunting.

I know it’d be so much easier to just not write the book — to throw away my idea or push it aside for some later date because the amount of work it requires to bring it to life seems insurmountable — and it’s tempting. Every morning, as I make my way from bed to desk and confront the chunk of my outline that hasn’t been checked off yet, I face the question of whether or not I’ll continue writing. I know I could go grab a donut with friends or walk to the bookstore instead, and I almost do.

But then I see it, tucked between Maya Angelou and Cheryl Strayed: the bright pink post-it note with the words “One bite at a time” written in big, bold lettering. And I grab my pen, and my yellow notepad, and I write the book the only way I know how.

Word by word. Sentence by sentence. Story by story.