June 2022

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Here’s the last of the Medium.com content. There’s more here, but this is all I’m going to be sharing on this newsletter. Hope that’s cool with you.

I am a Failure. And that is ok.

This is not a post where I wallow in self-pity. This is not a cry for help. This isn’t even a negative-oriented post. (Because God forbid I say anything remotely negative on the Internet.) This is simply a post on what a failure I am as a writer, adult, and person.

Why on earth would I want to write about that? Why would I want to put that negativity out there?

First let’s consider the word “failure.” A failure is not someone who has given up. A failure is not someone who is defeated. Not necessarily. A failure is just someone who fails consistently, and I do fit that description.

My Viking ancestors worshipped a pantheon of deities who had foreknowledge of their own deaths at a time known as Ragnarok. When Odin went to the Volva seeking wisdom, he was told he would die in battle facing Fenris, the great wolf offspring of Loki. Thor would die slaying the Midgard Serpent, Jormungandr, a beast big enough to encircle the whole world. Heimdall would die in battle with Loki himself. Each of these failures was preordained. It wasn’t negative thinking. The Norse gods didn’t have a pessimistic outlook on life, far from it. The pagan Norse perspective was to live in the moment, perform what deeds of glory were possible, and spit in Fate’s eye when death came for them.

From the time I was little, I knew I would be a failure in romance. I can’t explain why, exactly, but when I listened to Cat Stevens sing about a woman he could never have, I knew my future would be full of unrequited love. I didn’t even know what “unrequited” meant.

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How did I know this at age 6? How could I possibly know this? Who told me I was incapable of finding love? No idea. But the idea was there.

Understand, none of this so-called negativity is my parents’ fault. Far from it. They’ve always encouraged me to be upbeat, positive, and proactive. They’ve always encouraged me to look for solutions, to stay on the sunny side, and find my peace in God. They always claimed I could do anything I set my mind to.

But they were wrong. In elementary school, I remember setting my mind to hit a homerun every time I played baseball. I was lucky to get on base. I set my mind to ace every class and fell short in that. I set my mind to be married in my 20s, but here I am single and almost 40. I set my mind not to fall on my ass every time I went ice skating but guess what? (Ok, that one did eventually happen by the time I was in my 30s.)

Some of this may be personal hang-ups, true. But I don’t really feel bad when I call myself a “loser.” Isn’t it better, in the end, to be someone who tried and failed than someone who never tried at all? Do or do not, as Yoda says. There is no try.

Except there kind of is, isn’t there? I try my best to write blog entries no one ever reads. I try to be funny. Engaging. Entertaining. I’ve even tried to find a niche, despite my refusal to be pigeonholed. I set my mind to publish a series of fantasy novels and failed to publish a single one. I’ve created a comic book that sells zero copies every month. Nothing works. I can’t find any success as a writer.

I’ve applied to over 500 jobs since 2019, and I’ve yet to find full-time employment. I’ve swiped right at least a thousand times on Bumble with no matches and sent hundreds of messages on OKCupid with nothing to show for it. I went to college where I graduated with no career prospects. I got my Master’s and took the only teaching position I was offered. I’ll have to tell you about how I failed at that job some other time.

Now, some of this is unfair expectations I put on myself. That inner critic we’re always warned about. And that is true. I’m very hard on myself. No matter how hard I try, I’m always moving the bar out of reach. It keeps me going. Keeps me striving. There’s something to be said for a little healthy negativity. And yes, some of this is cherry-picking. If I’m honest, I’ve had my share of victories, short-lived though they be.

It was the same with my Viking ancestors. When they knew the battle was lost, they fought harder. Winning wasn’t as important as the struggle. The journey mattered more than the destination.

Besides, all this so-called negativity kind of excites me. It means I do have a purpose. I do have a calling and a niche and an audience and all those things you need to be successful. I’m accepting myself here and now, as a loser. I’m leaning into my negativity and making it my own.

I failed as a teacher for a number of reasons. I’ve failed to find full-time employment as a grant writer. I’ve failed to publish my fantasy novel. I’ve failed to find an audience on Instagram. I’ve failed to lose weight. I’ve failed to stop eating so much. I’ve failed to stop spending so much money. I’ve failed to resist the urge to order Papa John’s tonight, even though I cannot afford it. (Those cheese sticks were good though.)

In my life, I’ve consistently struck while the iron was cold. I’ve self-sabotaged and put in an 80% effort. I’ve lived in “good enough” and hated myself for it. In 8th grade, I failed to ask Natalie Nelson to dance until the last song, but by then it was too late. She’d left early.

During my years as an undergrad at Presbyterian College, one of my professors had a quote on her door. Here’s what it looked like:

Photo credit: Joe Beck. (Photo is of a quote which reads: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Words cannot express how I hated seeing that quote on Dr. Williams’s door every time I walked through the English department on the 2nd floor of Neville Hall. It was so negative. So demoralizing. “Fail better?” What weak nonsense was that? It went against every impulse toward glory that I had, every cell in my body railed against such a call. It was everything I’d been taught not to be. It was negative. It embraced failure as a positive thing when it was something to be ashamed of as I was ashamed.

See, I’d embraced the toxic positivity of self-help books from a young age, listening to the tapes of Stephen Covey, who insisted that anyone who couldn’t consistently keep a positive attitude was a neurotic or psychotic. I listened to all those “thoughts become things/power of positive thinking/life is a mirror” swindlers who don’t seem to acknowledge the fact that guess what? Failure is inevitable. Everybody fails. Everybody falls. It’s ok. It’s ok to admit defeat. It’s ok to withdraw. It’s ok to lose. It’s ok to not be the best every single time.

My problem was never being a failure. My problem was expecting to win every time.

Listen, I’m no sad sack nihilist espousing that all the world is vanity and there’s no hope to be found anywhere. It makes no sense to me to be a pessimist because where do you go from there? You have to get out of bed. You have to go to work. You have to make money to pay the rent because you have to have food, clothing, shelter, and LEGO.

I fail constantly. Maybe you do too. If that’s the case, know that it’s ok. I’m a failure too, and I’m still here. Still trying. Still failing. Tomorrow, we’ll fail better. We’ll fail together.

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