The first time I fell down as an adult, I was so shocked I started laughing. I had tripped over nothing and landed on my hands and knees in the middle of the pavement, while my colleagues stared in concern. I wasn’t hurt beyond a couple of scratches. But the embarrassment of it played through my mind for the rest of the day.
Then, months later, I fell again. Ice-skating this time, so not entirely unexpected, and far less embarrassing. But this time what struck me was how long it took me to fall, the frenzied flapping of my arms and the swooping in my gut, until the final thud that felt like a seismic event. I didn’t quite see stars, but it took me several seconds to be able to breathe again through the pain in my wrenched shoulder. I got off the ice immediately and went home, ignoring offers of help, which was pretty stupid since the pain was making me nauseous and dizzy. I went home and lay for an hour staring at the ceiling, slowly checking every bone for a fracture.
It’s a cycle—my dizzy mind thought at the time—embarrassment, pain, fear of embarrassment, fear of pain, all leading to that clenching and tightening of the muscles that make a fall both truly graceless and excruciatingly painful. If only I could learn to fall as a child does, I thought, I might have an easier time.
Water helped. Falling in the water a thousand times while surfing taught me to loosen my muscles and give in, to protect my face instead of trying to save face. But every once in a while something happens to make me feel that burn of embarrassment, that swoop in my gut that says, As an adult, you should be better than this.
Where does that voice come from? It’s so unhelpful. It’s not as if anyone has ever actually laughed at me for falling, or shown me anything but concern. Maybe there are buried childhood memories of other adults being ridiculed for it, but none come to mind. And yet, as I start a writing course (this Monday, and for the next eight months) a part of me feels that dread. Because I’m not just another writer taking a course, hopeful of publication. I’m a published author. The writing version of an adult. I’m not supposed to need to learn or take courses or get help. Right?
Fear of failure is a writer’s poison. Nothing else is more potent at keeping words off the page. Especially in this era where every mistake gets stored in screenshots and internet caches to be held against you in a decade, it can be paralyzing. It takes so much mental discipline to remember, I’m still new at this.
I’m finding it helpful to learn the flute alongside my writing course. I don’t expect anything out of my flute lessons at this point except greater enjoyment of music. I’m not going to perform or become a professional player. I just want to have fun. And the flute lessons are great at putting me back in a beginner mindset, when even being able to do something I couldn’t last week is a source of joy. It’s the mindset I want to bring to my writing too—some day.
Image: This flute sadly does not play but it’s great for twirling menacingly. Points to anyone who recognizes it.