During the years of our education failure is clearly defined for us.
It’s the difference between right and wrong. Yes and no. It was marked in percentages and letters.
No middle ground.
Failure had negativity driven straight through its heart. It was tangible. You could feel it.
Don’t. Fuck. Up.
If you did fail there would be all sorts of “consequences”.
The job you dreamed of would now be beyond your reach. (What total guff)
You might be forced to repeat an exam or, if you really failed big time you would have to repeat the year.
You might not get accepted into university.
A load of fear mongering if you ask me.
Whilst writing my book I’ve thought a lot about failure and what it might be. And I’ve come to this conclusion:
The only way I can fail is if I don’t finish writing my book.
That would be my failure.
Sure, if it doesn’t get published I’d be disappointed, but I’m ready to accept that. The amount of variables in the world of publishing means it would be hard to pinpoint why it never made it. Everything from the time of year (romance novels are huge in February) and what’s fashionable to my manuscript landing on the wrong editor’s desk. Who knows?
Other writers might deem not getting published as a failure. And maybe it would be for them.
My point is that you determine what “failure” might be. Not anyone else.
Naomi and I always run from the same set of rules:
If you can handle the worst possible outcome, then anything else on top of that is cream.
So if, when I’m finished my book and the only copy has to rest on my bookshelf waiting for the day my son is old enough to read it, then I’m super happy with that.
What will I do if that happens?
I’ll start writing my second book.