In Christian theology, there is the strange concept of the felix culpa, the “happy fault.” It shows up in liturgical language, as in, “O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam, which gained for us so great a Redeemer!”
We don’t often like to think of things like our faults, and certainly, we do not like to speak of “necessary sin” in polite company. Nevertheless, I think there is something useful here.
You may have noticed that it has been a while since I have written. Apologies for that. One of the things that I have learned about myself is that my brain often gets the best of me. I set out to work on something (like a book, or an audio project, or a set of blog posts) and it goes fine for a while, until something … happens.
The best way I know to describe it is this. Maybe it’s like my brain gets all tied up. But that’s not quite right. Here’s a better description: imagine you lost an arm. Or maybe even both arms. Then imagine you want a cup of coffee.
You can remember what it’s like to hold the mug in your hands and bring it to your lips. You can have every desire to drink the coffee. You can say out loud, “I WILL DRINK THIS COFFEE.” And you can mean it, deep down, in your soul.
But you’ve got no arms, so no matter how much you might want to, you can’t pick that coffee up.
When the writing (or any task, really) goes away for me, it goes away like that. I can sit in the chair and think, “I need. to send that email.” I can say out loud, “I want to write this blog post.” And I can mean it, with every bit of my being. I can remember the muscle memory of the tasks. I can even remind myself how ludicrously simple that it is. It won’t take me five minutes!
And yet I can’t do the thing. Because — for some reason — my arms have disappeared.
Back in the 1970s, Brian Eno and the artist Peter Schmidt came up with a deck of cards that they described as “worthwhile dilemmas.” These were little haiku-like phrases that were designed to jar you out of creative inaction. They called this set of dilemmas The Oblique Strategies, and if you have hung out with me for any length of time, you have probably heard me mention them before.
So the title of this post is a transcription of the words on the card I drew this morning: Look closely at the most embarrassing details and amplify them.
I like this card because it fits with the mantra that I brought into the new year with me: Learn to fail. Learn to fail in public.
You see, I had gotten into a very timid place these past couple of years. I had gotten comfortable doing the things I am good at, to the point that I stopped trying to do the things I suck at. And that can get bad. That can get very bad. And it got bad for me.
Because, you see, a fear of failing very quickly becomes a fear of trying. What will they think? I will never have time to make this good enough. I will never have time to read all the books, think through all the arguments, shore up all the defenses against the critics.
You start talking to yourself like that, and the next thing you know your arms have fallen clean off.
So here I am, trying to get my arms back a little. Trying to pick up that coffee cup. Trying to fail a little in public, on purpose, to remind myself that it won’t kill me to fail.
And if it won’t kill me to fail, it certainly won’t kill me to try.
Look closely at the most embarrassing details and amplify them.
Courage, beloveds.