Years ago, my son and I sat down to watch American Ninja Warrior. We thought it would be like Wipeout, a show that gave us both giggles.
American Ninja Warrior was oddly laughable in its seriousness of parkour and adult jungle gyms.
Ridiculous costumes. Obnoxious nicknames. Adults building obstacle courses in their backyards. The best: the two hosts, Matt Iseman and Akbar Gbajabiamila, the way they exploded at the feats of strength. Akbar’s constant “I see you” and his reactions to falls: “What?” I would love to hire them for the day and comment on my daily activities. I wonder how much they charge to provide commentary for monotonous events like graduations and school award ceremonies. Those two would liven up meetings that could have been an email—and oh please—school in-services.
Not that American Ninja Warrior is easy, mind you. (I couldn’t even do a pullup in gym class—I still can’t.) It’s the dedication to a hobby, a hobby that some have turned into a markable career, that seems so un-adultlike. Who has the time between work and sometimes even children to dedicate to playground equipment that looks like it spawned from Alice in Wonderland? Yet are Ninjas’ commitment to their sport any different than my commitment to writing? Or any other hobby for that matter?
Which started me thinking—what if the concept of American Ninja Warrior was applied to all other hobbies and/or jobs?
Here’s my version of American Writer Warrior. (Imagine Matt Iseman announcing it in that “Let’s get ready to rumble” way.)
Writers probably don’t want to be identified by their weight or age, although our height is inconsequential. We’d rather not be labeled as the youngest or oldest, biggest or smallest. Perhaps our hand or finger size would be the focus, how well we type, how fast or if some still hunt and peck the keys.
We probably are college athletes, stunt doubles, meteorologists, stay-at-home parents, and everything in between. Only a few would list their full-time job as writing, while the rest are either impoverished Edgar Allan Poes or one of those teacher-writer combos. The Rookies would be heralded for their accomplishments at the age of 12, while us old-timers are so far behind, with so little time left to finally write that bestseller.
Nowadays, all contestants are openly labeled by every adversity: anxiety, depression, disorders and diseases, and bullying. Except with writers, the act of writing causes anxiety and depression. Instead of engaging in athletics to eliminate anxiety, writers dive into the deep end of anxiety as they write, the finished product so subjective that there’s little predictably on whether anyone will read it and if they do, if they will like it. A completed manuscript, despite the accomplishment, might plunge a writer into a depression. And what writer wasn’t bullied as a child?
The writers would have to promote some platform, especially if their mental illness or disease is not highlighted. Cats (which would be mine), other animal rescues, kidney donations…funny, I don’t remember reading ever being represented. Our shirts would advertise these causes, as well as our nicknames: William Word, Story Lorie, Poet Pete. We might don green wigs, cowboy hats, or comic book character capes, but most of us would simply wear our favorite cardigan and pop on our eyeglasses. Some might wear suits or MC Hammer pants or tutus. We might like a cat on our lap or a cup of coffee on our table. Maybe even a lit cigarette, although that wouldn’t be allowed.
Like American Ninja Warrior, as in all the world, the women contestants who had children would be constantly referred to as mothers, while only a small fraction of the dads would even have children mentioned, thus not earning their main title as “father.” And the obstacle completions for these mothers would sound like unbelievable accomplishments, like no one expected as much.
The obstacles wouldn’t test our arm strength, but rather our creativity, our ability to compose under pressure.
One obstacle might be a typewriter, pressing down on the click clack of heavy keys, the inability to immediately fix an error. The older contestants would do better on that one, perhaps having learned to type on a typewriter. Just imagine Akbar: “Did you see that? No one has ever loaded a new paper that fast!” Or Matt: “Oh no, it’s jammed.” Akbar: “Oh my god, she’s out of ink!”
When writers finish an obstacle, perhaps writing a haiku or commercial jingle, we scream “Let’s go!” to the audience, our fans who watched us write a short piece in record time. Matt and Akbar would discuss our pace, if we’re known for speed, and instead of talking about our hot feet, perhaps would say “hot fingers” as we typed away. Rather than discuss our L’s—the preferred shape of the arms while hanging from an obstacle—they would discuss how we handwrote our L’s, or perhaps our extensive vocabulary.
A balance obstacle might be about not overwriting or underwriting. Or it might regard our time: how most writers have other jobs and kids. Just being able to squeeze out a couple hours of uninterrupted time to write is a feat in itself.
One obstacle would be called Kill Your Darlings, where we take a finished piece of work and cut out our favorite parts. Akbar might scream: “Did you see that? I can’t believe it!” while he places his hands on his forehead as we toss our beloved passages.
Instead of falling into water, a trap door would swallow us when we failed an assignment or could not complete an obstacle. Some may push their own button, giving up, while others used up all their allotted time and still couldn’t finish. Matt and Akbar would remind us to “Hurry but don’t rush.” Instead of saying our arms gave out, it would be our creativity. Or hope.
They could comment on our shocking falls and remind us, “Our season might be in jeopardy,” if we fail to complete all six obstacles in the first round.
“Beat that Wall! Beat that Wall! Beat that Wall!” It’s not a literal wall in the writing world, but rather writer’s block, as the writer has stalled, unable to continue. Paralyzed by a fear of failure, criticized by our perfectionism with every word, bored by our unimaginative ideas, we sit at that wall, unable to compose a word, not even drivel.
If we were able to Beat that Wall and hit a buzzer, we would move on to the next round, with more difficult obstacles. We’d even compete side by side with another writer, where only one of us can make it through, because the world isn’t big enough for all of us. Yes, we can all write, but less than one percent will see publication with a reading audience bigger than their family and friends, if that.
We win the title of American Writer Warrior not by climbing an 80-foot rope in less than thirty seconds, but by writing that novel or memoir, probably at least 300 pages. And we must do it faster than our competitor. Our win isn’t one million dollars, but publication. Such publication comes with a bulky contract, rewrites and edits that won’t even sound like us anymore. But our final book would be stamped with American Writer Warrior on the front, a seal that shows prospective readers that we had what it takes to make it through four rounds of absurd obstacles to prove our strength, our creativity, and most importantly, our perseverance.
Just because we won American Writer Warrior doesn’t mean we’ve won much of anything despite our books that sit on Barnes and Noble shelves. We’re better off with the online following that American Writer Warrior gave us, people who will buy our book without question just because we appeared on a TV show.
For if we don’t have readers, what was it all for?