epic failure.

When I was eight I found myself feeling adventurous enough to audition for my elementary school’s talent show. Always the soul fan, I chose Erykah Badu’s debut song, “On and On” as my audition piece. Though not whole-heartedly, I did prepare. I memorized the lyrics and mastered the tune. I was excited and ambitious, and all of the things that little girls should be.

At the audition, I did my thing. I hit my notes and worked the stage a little. Of course, I didn’t let all of my little light shine–had to save some for the real show.

A few auditions after mine, a girl came on stage with a headwrap on and some kind of printed mumu and I already knew what was up. She was coming for my spot! And she had all the tricks in her bag. Plain and simple, she put on a better show.

Somehow, when I found out I didn’t make the show, I was stunned. Worse than the rejection was the regret. Why hadn’t I thought to wear a headwrap? Mom had incense, why hadn’t I used that as a prop?

One thing I miss and admire about my childhood was my refusal to believe that I could not conquer the world. I was no less than spectacular, and my underdeveloped ego simply could not process any attacks to it. If someone didn’t love me, it was because they had a diseased heart. If they couldn’t see that I was beautiful, they had cataracts. Even though I was dissappointed at my rejection from the talent show, I was undaunted.

Somewhere along the way, I became much more doubtful of my wonders. It could have been meeting those tragic and inspirational people who seemed talentless to me but who held onto their dreams with such gusto that I was almost persuaded to change my mind. These people were convinced that they were talented, but they (maybe) really weren’t.

I recently applied to two writing programs, and yesterday, received notice that I was not accepted into either. I was devastated; I cried for two hours and I asked myself if I am one of those hopeless, untalented people. I seriously considered that I might be a clueless artist, completely unaware that my art is vigorless and uninspiring.

In this case, I’m thankful for regret. It gives me hope. I tried hard, but I know I didn’t work my very hardest on my those applications. I haven’t devoted enough time to my writing, and I haven’t immersed myself into it.

I’m short on time now, so its hard deciding how to use spare time when I get it. I have relationships to nurture, errands to run, and art to craft. But this failure has inspired me to make my art my mission. I will have to be reclusive, and people will misunderstand my silence and absense. That will suck big.

But when I’m writing, I feel like I’m receiving things. I get words that I don’t know the meanings of, and I use them correctly. I can describe experiences that I’ve never had before efficiently. Sometimes, the things I write are from myself; but whenever I write something magical, it comes from somewhere else. It feels like the perfect expression of the God within me. It would be foolish not to feed that energy.

This failure is my opportunity to snatch that little girl back. And if I am among the tragically undaunted, then I will at least be an inspiration.

Love to all the kids who regularly pay the ice cream man with all pennies.

Kisses to all the wealthy people who support free healthcare.

Peace to the middle east.

Advertisement