An Admission

I’ll keep it brief.

I know it’s a cliche that gets tossed around now and again, but I am gaining a deeper peace with letting yourself fail. Or to lay heavy on the cheese: it is only failure if you let it be one. Failure? Some opposite of success, a lingering malaise of what should have been done instead, these conceptual happiness usurpers, I can’t say I have conquered.

I make many attempts at many preposterous ideas. So often I consider these attempts failures because I didn’t achieve a demented grandiose goal. In my corner I am amassing a sexy portfolio of these failures — and they don’t seem so bad as they used to. I didn’t win that poetry competition. That kickstarter didn’t get me on a billboard. So I still have thirty unfinished Diamond Willow staves sitting in a basement, prospectively betrothed to thirty aspiring modern wizards. For every ten schemes, plans or projects that I start, maybe one do I finish, and still I am not famous!

Attempts. Attempts. Attempts. My perception is changing. It’s easy to say money can’t buy you happiness (it’s much easier to realize without can make you miserable) yet living that mantra is another beast. I am having this creeping catharsis that is lifting a weight from my chest: I am a creative person. I daren’t say artist without blushing. All these tries, they mean something more to me, money isn’t why I do. I am learning financial gain isn’t my litmus of success, nor is an audience, though I do like to be heard (red cheeks and all).

Do not take this as an apologia for lackadaisical half-heartedness. Nay. NAY! I am not done. My cup spilleth over. I am emboldened. My project is my life — to say I have achieved success is frightfully fatalistic and final. And I am afraid to die. There are such glorious riches abound.


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