A post on failure? Pfft. Cakewalk. Who’s better than me at failure? I’ve been failing for years. I’m a dirty, lowdown failure of a human being. For years, I worked in restaurants as a maitre d’ and repeatedly, the current hostess-of-the-month would ask, “Can I ask for some career advice?”
I’d say, “Sure. Just keep in mind you’re asking the world’s oldest hostess for career advice. Go ahead.”
The joke got less funny the older I got. See, I never thought of my restaurant jobs as a career path. They were the things I did because my acting career had failed.
I couldn’t wait to write this post. Log all the failures and share them with all of you? Fun!
As I started this post, though, I realized I hadn’t been failing badly all these years. I hadn’t been failing at all.
I’d been not trying— and not trying is different. It’s worse. Like, drinking from a poisoned well worse.
But I’m failing like crazy now. What’s changed?
Let’s first talk about why failure’s important. Without it, any kind of growth: creative, educational, spiritual, or emotional, will be an uphill battle. Failing shows us what we don’t want, so we can see what we do want.
Also, when we fail, it means we’ve tried. We fail and it teaches us where we need to improve. Failing shows us if something’s important enough to dust ourselves off and try again.
Google famous failures and you’re bound to find one of your heroes/heroines who’s failed a bunch and refused to give up. (If you do this, and see Colonel Sanders on that list (he’s there), and he’s your all-time hero— mix in a salad occasionally.)
That Google search will give you a string of names— people who refused to let failure get the best of them. Awesome.
I’ll tell you someone else who never used to let failure get the best of him. Me. Here’s where my old pal, not trying takes center stage. I’ll tell you a quick story:
Long before Failure became my BFF, my old BFF was Oval Boxes. You remember the ones— from standardized tests. It was the fabulous 1970s, and the Iowa Test swept the nation, or at least Salisbury Memorial Elementary School. I took my powdery #2 pencil and scratched those little ovals in neat and perfect.
When the results came back, they pulled me into an office. I had scored a 99. Two people in our elementary school had earned this staggering high score: my classmate Kim and me. We were The Gifted. They whisked us out of third grade and sat us at a little table in the corner of a fifth grade class to observe. (This only lasted a week. The development gap was too much. Fifth graders to third graders? They may as well have been smoking pipes, drinking martinis, and talking divorce. They got us the hell out of there, fast.)
I loved the superior attitude I felt as The Gifted. My classmates didn’t carry me around on a litter, but they should have. I was King of the School. I was on Cloud Nine. When I walked the halls, I glided with pride. I felt four feet tall. I showed my Gift to others, “Trouble with your times tables? Here, junior, let Ol’ 99 show you how to do multiplication. It’s easy. Gimme that pencil, kid.”
One day in class, our teacher introduced a new mathematical concept: Division. It’s just like multiplication she explained, but reversed. She wrote it on the chalkboard, talked us through, and gave us some practice exercises.
The girl in front of me turned around, nervous. “I’m kind of confused. Do you understand this?” she said.
Of course. I’m Ol’ 99. I’ll explain it all to you. But first, nature calls. I raised my hand, got my hall pass, and went to the boys’ room.
Nature hadn’t called. I’d gone in there to cry my eyes out. About division. I didn’t understand it. At all. When the teacher wrote it all down, she could have been writing Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. My mind couldn’t grasp it.
I dried my eyes, pulled myself together, went back to the class, sat down, and… didn’t speak about it for ten years. No help asked, no help achieved. I never told the girl in front of me, I never told my teacher, and I never told my parents.
It was my first swing with not trying. Instead of asking for help, I left class that afternoon and chalked it up to, “I’m just not good at math.” Presto. No more easy math classes for me. Ever again.
See? That’s not failure, my friends. That’s someone who’s uncomfortable and turns the other way. That’s someone who says no to the growth gained by failure. He won't try. He won't tolerate the pain of failure. He’d rather not try.
P.S., before you feel too bad about that little kid, when I did start talking about it, I was telling it to women as a pickup story. A very, very, effective pickup story. Who can resist that crying little scaredy-cat, alone in the bathroom? Aww, you poor thing! Anyway…
I have a string of these never-try-never-fail events:
- playing baseball
- playing football
- dating in high school
- painting and drawing
- learning guitar the first time
- learning guitar the second time
- learning guitar the third time
- learning guitar the second time
- learning the business of acting in Los Angeles
- creative writing
What did all of this never-try-never-fail attitude get me? A smaller life than it could have been. Look, no one likes to fail. I’m not a sociopath— I’m not suggesting I would have enjoyed the struggle, but even if I didn’t become a professional baseball player who during rainouts went to auditions and played his guitar, I would have learned so much from the trying.
Wait, creative writing’s on the list? Don’t I love writing? Didn’t I write throughout grade school, and in junior high during study hall and detention? Surely, I must have continued to write through all the years, yes?
No. I packed it away and didn’t give it the light of day until I was forty. Why? The worst brand of not trying, and one of my dirtiest secrets— I thought I had some talent, but no way would I prove myself wrong by trying and failing.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Yes, I’m that self-destructive.
So what happened? How did I become such a spectacular failure? Three words…
Life’s given me a few kicks in the teeth. I didn’t ask for them, didn’t want them, and unlike guitar, baseball, or dating, turning my back on them wasn't an option. These things shook my foundation. Life no longer worked the way I thought it should.
So… call it spiritual growth, call it a late blossom, or call it a mid-life crisis (although, whenever I use that term on my dad, he always says, “Mid-life? You’re forty seven. How long do you think you’re going to live?”), call it what you will— but for some reason, I began practicing these three words that helped me become a failure with grace.
It’s my most powerful three-word-combo — Maybe. I’m. Wrong.
“Maybe I’m wrong” has allowed me to try. And trying has allowed me to fail. And failure…
Sucks! It’s so uncomfortable! It kicks my ass— but in a good way.
I wrote a novel for National Novel Writing Month (do it with me in November) It came out terrible. Utter failure. I thought “See? You’re a horrible writer.” — That may be true. but… maybe I’m wrong.
I wrote a second shitty NaNoWriMo novel (seriously, do it. You’ll love it). My head said, “Enough’s enough. Go back to video games already. You’ll never get better.” — I hear ya, head. Maybe so. But then again… maybe I’m wrong.
I wrote a third novel last November (just email me about NanoWriMo. I’ll talk you into it). I came up with the worst first draft. Take it away, head— “This draft is garbage. You can’t save it.” Probably not. It’s pretty bad. But… maybe I’m wrong.
That third novel is my favorite thing I’ve ever worked on. I love it.
Just in my creative work alone, opportunity for failure never stops. I can fail this blog, fail at publishing anything, fail at ever making a nickel from my creative work.
All those things may come true. Deep down I believe they all will come true.
But maybe I’m wrong.
I share my process with you guys and you’ve all been so supportive. You’ve heard about my pain, goals, and growth. You’ve shared yours through comments and emails. We talk about times and places where we are rock-bottoming out in our lives. Those times are when life itself feels like an absolute failure. Everything we’ve valued is out the window. Everything we thought was important is gone, fading, or hitting us in the face.
When I was at my worst, I knew with certainty I wouldn't make it through. I knew in my heart, as my teacher Jim used to say, “Life’s a shit sandwich and every day you take another bite.”
It was in the dark times, though, that I first thought— because I had nothing else healthy to think— Maybe I’m wrong.
Failure has grown my life in wonderful ways. And embarrassing ways, and uncomfortable ways, and bad turns, false starts, ill-conceived ideas, dangerous mentors, terrible wastes of time.
But at least now, I’m in the game.
My mentor-friend Bob once told me, “Leave it all on the table. That way, when you’re old, even if you never [insert your impossible dream, career, relationship, trip, or task here], at least you can say, ‘You know what? I gave it my best shot.' You don’t feel regret when you leave it all on the table.”
Today, when I fail, it still feels shitty. It still feels like I’m that dumb, scared, little kid starting at the blackboard. I hate it. However, I’ve lived the not trying life, and I hate that a thousand times more. Believe me, meditating on the woulda/shoulda/couldas is the road to madness.
So may we all go out today and fail in the most alarming way. May we do it publicly, may we do it loudly, and may we do it going for that thing in life that’s so important, you’re willing to put yourself at risk.
Drop me a comment below— give me your best failure. Or even better…
What’s that thing you’ve never tried because you were too afraid to fail? You’d look dumb, you’re too old, you don’t know the first thing about achieving it, you know damn well you won’t be any good at it, thousands have tried and what gives you the gall to think you’d succeed?
Hey, you know what? You’re probably right. Likely, you'll trip down the proverbial stairs and fall flat on your face. We will all laugh at you, think you’re ridiculous, can’t believe you thought you’d make it, and you will truly know in your bones that [insert your impossible dream, career, relationship, trip, or task here] will never, ever come to fruition.
And then again…
Maybe you’re wrong.