I hate failing.

Have ever since I was a kid. When I’d do something wrong, even something as small as a couple wrong answers on a spelling test, I’d get this horrible sinking feeling in my gut and it would just sit there like a lump of coal. I’d go to bed that night with the terrifying certainty that I would be forever judged by that failure. We’re sorry sir, I’d imagine a faceless personification of the future telling me, people who don’t score well on spelling tests aren’t allowed to go to college, or get good jobs, or ever have fun again.

If I could just figure out how to be better at things, I thought. If I could just figure out how to never make mistakes or do anything wrong, why, then I could be a success. Because that’s how successful people did it. By being perfect.

So there you go. Want to do well at life? Just never do anything wrong. Ever.

Then something funny happened. I started to learn more about these successful people, and I discovered that not only did they fail, they often failed repeatedly. Spectacularly. Sometimes even disastrously. See, I was missing a key thing. Failure, as painful and un-fun as it is, is also immensely educational, often more so than success. The pain and self-reflection that failure causes can lead to personal growth that we’d never have experienced had we only succeeded.

I learned this first hand in a big way when I failed quals in grad-school. It felt like the path I’d been on my entire life had abruptly ended in a cliff. But what I learned from that experience, about myself, about how I best work, about what I need to be happy, has allowed me to take life in an entirely new direction. I never would have gotten my current job without that failure, nor would I have tried my hand at writing. You see, I always assumed I’d fail as a writer too, but after grad school, I figured, why not give it a go?

I see the same thing in writing. Failed scenes germinate the seeds for great scenes. Ideas from failed novels become the bones for great novels. Heck, the first draft of this blog post was an incoherent mishmash of thoughts that I hated so much I wanted to cry. But I’ve started to realize how necessary all these failures are. I want to be a great writer someday, and every great writer I know failed a lot. (Just ask best-selling author Kevin J. Anderson about his “Writer With No Future” award.)

It’s the start of a new year, a time to think about our goals for 2014. I know so many people who only pick goals they know they can achieve. I used to be one of those people. But we can’t let the fear of failure stop us from striving for great things. So I say this: Set goals that are hard, daring, goals that might even seem mildly insane. Goals you may very well fail to achieve. And that’s okay, too, because this is as much about the journey as it is the result.

My goals for 2014? I want to finish polishing my first novel into something people will both love and remember, self-publish it, and convince thousands of people to buy it. I want to write the first two novels of a new seven book fantasy series that will be even better. I want to enter and place in the Writers of the Future contest. I want to outline an epic series that will rival Sanderson and Rothfuss’s best work.

I’ve got to be honest with you. As a poker player, I wouldn’t recommend betting on me pulling all this off. Setting daring goals doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be realistic about the outcome. But what I do firmly believe is that trying to do all of this won’t hurt, that even if I don’t sell thousands of copies and don’t finish as many novels as I want and don’t come up with a great epic fantasy outline, I’ll still learn a ton and I’ll end the year a better writer than I started. And hey, maybe the stars and planets will all align and I’ll surprise everyone, including myself.

I still hate failing, but these days, I’m less afraid of it.

A guest post by Brian Edward Malnes

Writing is hard work. The craft involves loneliness and uncertainty. Rejection is part of growth in this tricky business called writing. What’s more, every word written is constantly under revision. And yet, I am writing now, hoping to share one or two thoughts about the art of word.

Writing is everything. That is, everything we know is, or was once, written down. The word is the basic building block of every human emotion. Sentences combine words to articulate thoughts, to breathe life into the mundane environs—bringing clarity, richness, and heart. This is massive, and yet through economy and practice every one of us can turn words into the sum of all things.

Writing is creation. It is putting words on paper to communicate ideas. Naturally, the first thing to do is have an idea. But not just that, one must gather the courage to divulge what is hidden within themselves. Whether it is fiction or poetry, non-fiction or journalism, the writer is a part of everything they create. So, it is frightening to separate what is inside, what is personal, with the rest of the world. I must remind myself that perfection is an impossibility that only resides in my mind. I am writing to socialize with the world. Nothing I write will be perfect, which is great because nothing in the world is perfect either.

Writing is a bridge. The bridge is between the author and the audience. Knowing who the audience is establishes the nature of the writing itself. Who will be reading the words? Diaries and journals are excellent tools to communicate with one’s self. However, the difference between typing and writing is found when an audience is acknowledged. I must tell myself that what I am doing is not secret and will/must be shared. Thus, I take my first step across the bridge. I rejoice in the fact that I am sharing with the world—I am a writer who is writing.

Writing is honest, or it is not. Naturally it is not the difference between fiction and non-fiction. Instead, good writing communicates the truth of the human condition essential truth that enables the reader to suspend disbelief. One of the best methods of conveying truth is via dialog. Good dialog centers the readers. Free moving, natural discourse allows characters to truly exist. And if your characters exist, then there is a truth that creates a positive rhetorical argument in support of one’s writing.

Writing is human. Does your character smell things? Can the reader taste the toothpaste in your character’s mouth? Think about all the things that make us human beings; the little pains and annoyances, Santa’s bell incessantly ringing, or the olfactory awakening as the wind changes, wafting the smells of the turkey slaughterhouse next door. Every moment something is happening, just as every moment a heart is beating, an eye blinks.

Writing is…something different to everyone. There is no template for the great American novel, and thank goodness for that. I wake up everyday knowing I am a writer who is writing. The goal is to write more, to share more, to read more. Writing is my life, and I can say its been worth every page.

Guest Bio

Brian Edward Malnes is currently finishing his PhD in English at the University of Louisiana @ Lafayette. His writing spans several genres to include being a reporter for the Denver Post, editor for several literary magazines to include, The Progenitor and Thin Air, and author of the book of poetry Seven Years’ Bad Luck. Malnes’ work has appeared in numerous literary journals to include most recently Danse Macabre and The Portland Review.