"Why aren't you failing?"

There's failing, and there's failing in public. But it's only paper, right?

Photo by Victor Freitas on Unsplash

A week or so ago a friend of mine posted something on Instagram, and I’ve been musing on it ever since.

Paul Taylor-Pitt is a coach, mentor and facilitator. He’s also writing a non-fiction book — Still Here! Still Queer! Now what? — and as he writes and edits it ready for publication in October 2015 he’s been sharing some ‘Postcards Towards Publishing’.

On 8th December he wrote a post, some of which went like this…

My trainer, Kier, asked [..] how my workouts were going. 'Fine', I said. 'Manageable'.

'So why aren't you failing?' was his response. I had no idea that the point of lifting weights was to reach a point of failure where the muscle just can't do another thing. I'd been finishing each set with a chef's kiss and a cheeky wink, happy that I could do more and still look fresh. […]. Being asked why aren't you failing was both freeing and terrifying.

[…]

When I sat with my book yesterday, red pen in hand, noticing all the structural errors, repetition and mistakes, I tried to celebrate them instead of turning in on myself and being squashed. Oh good, I spotted another failure! Just keep marching forwards.

Paul’s note (and it’s worth reading the whole thing) hit me hard.

It reminded me of the David Bowie quote I love — “Always go a little further into the water than you feel you’re capable of being in. Go a little bit out of your depth. And when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.” It reminds me too of P J Harvey’s White Chalk — an album she made with mainly piano-led songs, primarily as it’s an instrument she didn’t play. She wanted (and I’m paraphrasing and quite possibly projecting here) to break new ground for herself by learning a new instrument and creating a work that would have the naivety of someone who’s maybe proficient but has not yet mastered it.

The truth is, fear of failure kills more dreams than anything else, and perfectionism is probably the biggest enemy of creativity.

But why did Paul’s Postcard resonate with me quite so deeply? With every book I write I want to stretch myself to write better, to tell a better story using better words in a better order. That feels obvious, and in some ways easy. If I just practice — by writing and reading and writing some more — I’m going to get better, right? It’s almost inevitable, a bit like someone who lifts more and heavier weights. They’re going to get bigger muscles. It’s just science.

But I don’t feel like I’m exercising to failure. I don’t feel like I’m pushing myself hard enough, or spending enough time outside my comfort zone.

Case in point, I’ve always wanted to write poetry. But do I even attempt it? No. Not seriously (or playfully, for that matter, which would probably be far better). Because I’m so scared of failing, of finding that I can’t do it. So I don’t really try. Which means I fail anyway — as there’s still no poem written at the end of the day — but I do so in a way I can control and have power over.

BUT. I say it again. Fear of failure kills more dreams than anything, and certainly more than failure itself.

So what to do about this? Well, The Experiment (my share-my-first-draft project) was an attempt at stretching myself and putting myself outside my comfort zone, but that didn’t really work. The fear of failure was too great, it wasn’t a new skill I was learning after all. I’m a novelist, so sharing that early work was just too exposing.

But I’m not a poet. So, if I try to write poetry, and find I’m rubbish at it? It doesn’t matter. And trying something new — exercising to failure — can only be a good thing, I think.

So. I’ve decided to start a new project here on Compendia. It’s Only Paper.

It’ll be a new section, and I’m calling it, It’s Only Paper, for reasons that are hopefully obvious. My plan is to immerse myself in poetry, and to try, from scratch, to learn the basics of writing a poem. I know that this will come mainly from practice, so that’s what I’ll do. I’m going to keep my mindset playful, and try to channel some of Paul’s energy when he says above, “Oh good, I spotted another failure! Just keep marching forwards.”

I’ve got some ‘how to’ books, so they’ll be my leaping off point. Most obviously the one above. My goal is to see how far I can take it. In one years’ time I’d love to be able to say ‘I can write poetry’ or even just ‘I’ve written one poem I’m really proud of’. But, with the playful mindset front and centre, it’s ok if I can only say ‘I’m better than I was a year ago’ or even, ‘I spent a year practicing and I’m still no better so poetry clearly isn’t for me.’

Being too scared to try is failure. The rest is a success, right?

How will it work? I’m being playful, right? So it’s a moveable feast. Some posts will probably be free, but the only way I can share the (probably not great) poems I’m certainly going to be writing initially, will be if it’s to a relatively small subset of subscribers. So yeah, most of the posts will be for fully paid up members only, I’m afraid.

BUT - FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY YOU CAN CHOOSE TO PAY WHAT YOU LIKE, FOREVER. You’ll get access to ALL my posts, including memoir, essay, opinion and gossip. Just click below for the full details of what’s on offer, but do it now! Next year much more of Compendia will be behind the paywall, as it’s my work and I’m disinclined to give it away for free. BUT I will ALWAYS keep the price as low as possible.

Anyway, that’s my plan. What do you think? Am I mad?