Confessions of an occasional failure...
Writing is not a good profession for people who are afraid to fail.
In my mind, the ideal writer should be someone who can throw themselves into life with reckless abandon.
Never fearing ridicule. Never fearing the sting of rejection.
Never fearing that they might in fact land face first in the mud. Or that their slaved-over words will one day turn up on some “Worst Book Ever” Facebook list.
Yeah – I will never be that fearless.
Years ago, I was sitting on the sidelines, watching other people dance badly at a wedding. I was wearing this long, purple and blue skirt. And I wanted to stand up and join them. But I was way too nervous.
Then this guy came up to me and took my hand.
“Come on, we’re going to dance,” he said.
“I don’t know how to dance,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he replied with a smile.
“But, I’ve never actually danced in public before…” I protested.
“Neither have I,” he said.
I took his hand. And we danced. Badly. But happily.
I always dreamt that I would become a writer the same way. That maybe if I held around the sidelines long enough someone would take pity on me and publish my novel.
Somehow I dreamed I’d never receive a rejection letter. Never have to do a rewrite. Never spend hours slaving over something only to have it lost in some file corruption. Never be told, “Sorry, you’re not good enough”. Never be rejected.
I hate being rejected.
But maybe people who have never experienced life on the sidelines don’t become writers.
Maybe you need to have had your heart broken. Maybe you need to have your dreams crushed. Maybe you need to have been angry, and tired, and helpless, and guilty, and lost, before you have anything worth writing about.
And maybe you need to know what it’s like to have someone, gently, bravely, reach for your hand. And then find the courage to answer them.