I am sitting on Zoom, listening to a writer I love confess that after working on a screenplay for over two years, the project eventually fizzled out and died. Leaning closer to the screen, I search her face for signs of defeat, a sliver of sorrow or even bitterness. But as she details what happened, she simply shrugs.
“That screenplay was a joy to work on, and a joy to fail at,” she tells us with a genuine smile.
Those words roll around in my mouth like a peppermint candy, spicy and refreshing all at once, while my brain wrestles to comprehend what it immediately interprets as a false narrative.
Doesn’t success = joy? And failure = despair?
Days later, that phrase is still pinging around in my mind like new software a computer doesn’t recognize.
A joy to fail at.
A joy to fail at.
A joy to fail at.
My heart knows these two words can exist in the same sentence, but in the back of my brain, a quiet robot voice protests: Does. Not. Compute.
In my relatively short stint in Corporate America, success meant getting a promotion, earning bigger paychecks, receiving hearty pats on the back and nods of approval from people at the top. Success meant awards, accolades, five seconds of recognition during morning stand-up. When I left the pencil skirts and high heels to pursue a more creative career, success took on a new shape with the same bones. Build a platform. Amass a readership. Watch the analytics explode. Get a book deal.
Throughout most of my twenties, my personal definition of success matched the world’s definition of success: more, more, more.
As I climbed and climbed, I learned—more than once—that joy wasn’t always waiting at the top.
Well-meaning folks warn me about the rising cost of paper. Magazines are a dying breed, like one of those animals at the zoo with the extinction warning plaques. I have already sunk more than $2,500 into this dream, plus close to 100 hours of my own unpaid labor. Will anyone buy this? Read this? Will people think it’s beautiful? Call it a waste of money? I have no idea. All I can tell you is how I feel when I’m arranging printed stories all over my dining room table.
I feel excited. I feel alive. I feel … joy.
My friend Julie and I have been working on a narrative podcast since 2019. Between the pandemic, me writing a book, and her walking through breast cancer, we have had to set this project down what feels like 400 times. And yet—any time we are able to rally and make progress, the spark is undeniably still there.
I have already sunk a significant amount of money into microphones, podcast studio hours, editing and software—not to mention all of the unpaid hours I owe Julie at this point. Am I ever going to recoup the cost? TBD. This show is also heavier and different than anything we’ve ever made, and I genuinely have no clue how it’s going to be received. People could love it or hate it, call it redemptive or depressing. We could earn heaps of positive feedback or a slew of one-star reviews.
All I know is this: we are telling stories that matter. And the act of telling stories that matter is something that brings me joy.
On any given day, there are a number of other dreams swirling in the crevices of my heart. An in-person photography workshop. A secret project I’ve only told two people about. Another collaborative book for Coffee + Crumbs.
Will any of these things actually happen?
Will any of them succeed?
Will any of them fail?
Will some of them die a slow death behind the scenes before ever taking a breath?
In some ways, having success as your metric of joy is easier. More clear-cut. Easily defined. Here is the end goal; here is how you chase it.
When you embrace the idea that joy can be found in failure, you have to get more creative with your approach and mindset. You have to embrace the journey, come what may. You have to believe in nuance. You have to find value and meaning and significance in the creative process itself, wholly separate from the outcome. You have to find joy in the act of making something—regardless of whether or not that thing ever earns money or praise.
There are plenty of unknowns stretched out in front of me. A print magazine in the works. Another book proposal humming in my head. We are closing in on the third episode of that narrative podcast. Success or failure are equal possibilities in every single thing I am working on right now. And yet, this much I know: there is joy in trying, in experimenting, in putting yourself out there. There is joy in taking risks. There is joy in making art that you believe—deep in your heart—matters.
There is joy in creating anyway.
There is joy in being able to dream at all.
My book, Create Anyway, is officially available wherever books are sold. Grab it at Amazon, Target, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, or directly through Baker Book House. Thank you so much for supporting my writing ❤️
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Defining Word: Confidence
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What will be left?
I should have guessed I would be one of the youngest attendees, considering the ages of the headline speakers (68, 68, and 75 years old). A tiny part of me feels like a child placed at the grown-up table when I take my seat among women with silver hair.
I love this! I just printed out some rejection letters and framed them on my desk as “proof of risk.” When I received each rejection letter, email, or text, it certainly stung. But I was surprised that when I went back to print these, I no longer felt the shame of failure; I felt joy at having tried.
Thank you for modeling risky art (which is all art) and creating anyway!
Art is failure perfected.