Failure and Success: Dancing With the Beautiful One
On the inside door of my writing desk, I have an assortment of pictures, drawings, lists, and poetry. Each item taped on the door, as well as those items in the cabinets by my head, has a special meaning.
But I’d like to talk about one poem in particular today, in light of a couple of reviews (of Wish Girl) I read over the past few hours that reduced me to tears.
The poem in question was taken from a concert program.
One of my favorite musical groups in the world is an Austin-based choir called Conspirare. When I go to their concerts, the heart of the director, Craig Hella Johnson, is always apparent. He feels things deeply, thinks deeply, and his choir’s performances touch the audience in a way I’ve never experienced with any other singing group. (Side note: When I invited a friend to the upcoming concert, she asked what the choir would be singing. I answered, semi-joking, “The Glorious Heart of Craig.” She said “Buy the tickets!”)
In his program notes, Craig includes all the texts he and the other composers included. One of them was a poem by Hafiz, translated here:
If I didn’t have these words close at hand, some days I don’t think I could continue to write. You may not have suspected this. I post a lot of things on this blog, but most of them are positive. The truth about being a writer is that most of what I do fails. Most of my decisions I have to rethink. Most of my manuscripts will never make it to the shelves.
I am constantly failing, in my own eyes and in others. The reviews of my books frequently point out just how far short I fall, what a terrible job I am doing at this thing I have devoted my life to. It is difficult to ignore them.
Of course, sometimes it doesn’t even sting. Because sometimes I write things that don’t matter as much to me as others. Sometimes I write about fart jokes and falling down… but sometimes I write about kids I have known with leukemia, and kids who considered suicide.
Sometimes I write my own heartbreak.
When those stories are harshly criticized, it hurts. But I never, ever cry at those words. No, it’s words like the ones I read this week that make me weep — tears of joy and release, at being heard, at being understood.
This week, Margie’s review at Librarian’s Quest (Holding Hope in Your Heart) moved me to tears, as did Pamela Thompson’s review, which was included in the El Paso Times newspaper.
It feels like both of these readers read my poem out loud to me, the one that keeps me going on my very worst days – and that they understood what I was trying to do with Wish Girl.
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually danced with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet crushed angel.
I hope someday, Writer Friends, someone will hear you every bit as clearly, and will share that with the world- or at least with you. It makes every single failure feel like it may have been a success, all along. It makes the tears sweet.
Write well this week. Dance with the Beautiful One.