Good writing sessions feel like victory. They’re uplifting, full of adrenaline, we celebrate by buying a french doughnut. The bad ones feel like defeat, sometimes slow and drawn out but other times swift and sudden; you look up at the clock and it’s 6pm and you know the day is gone. I have lost.
There’s a word for it in the card game I’ve been playing: salt. Saltiness. You see salt in your opponents after a tough beat: they have to get up and walk around; they lose the ability to talk; they talk too much, blame their luck or yours. Consolatory words will not suffice. The best you can do is stay quiet and let them be salty.
How do I let me be salty. How does Tom Brady cope with a Sunday night loss, I wonder. What happens in those hours and days right after. I suspect more than just Coach’s yells and gritting teeth and shoulder pads throw in the direction of lockers, more than just I Will Work Harder. I suspect replays in minds and on screen of what was done both poor and well. Being humbled by assumptions brought to light. Learning you weren’t who you thought you were. I suspect denial, and bargaining. I suspect a cycle of grief.
