Despite having no plans to write a novel, I love reading advice for authors—maybe because it helps me understand what I love about my favorite books. Recently I was recommended Story Genius by Lisa Cron, which walks you through the stages of building a compelling novel around a compelling character arc, and I got to this character-building prompt:
[A]ll protagonists stand on the threshold of the novel they’re about to be flung into with two things about to burn a hole in their pocket:
Story Genius, p. 74
- A deep-seated desire—something they’ve wanted for a very long time.
- A defining misbelief that stands in the way of achieving the desire. This is where the fear that’s holding them back comes from.
Since I also love any chance for a bit of self-therapy, I immediately wondered, “What misbelief do I have that’s keeping me from achieving my goals?”
The answer came immediately, as if a corner of my mind had been patiently waiting for me to ask: “You think that it’s worse to try and then fail at something than not to try at all.” When I imagine writing to my representatives about an issue that’s important to me, I think about how crushing it will be to have gone to all that effort when they vote the other way. In my math research, I tend to shy away from trying to prove big, important conjectures, because the odds are low I’d be the one to crack them. I read book-writing advice because that feels safer than trying and failing to actually write one.
But I can also recognize that these choices are not in line with my values. So, to riff off cringey self-help gurus, I asked myself the title question of this blog post: What sorts of things would it be worth doing anyway, even if I knew that I would *fail*?
After getting past the gut reaction of “nothing,” I thought of three kinds of situations where I do feel like it’s worth trying even if assured of failure:
- When there’s important information to be learned from the attempt. Gardening is like this: it’s hard to know what will grow well in our microclimate, and there’s no substitute for trying and seeing what works.
- When initial failure paves the way for eventual success. I ask this of my students all the time: Study in such a way that you can make mistakes, notice them, and then learn to do it correctly. And the reality of how big math conjectures are eventually proven is from decades of community efforts, most of which are in directions that don’t pan out — you just can’t tell in advance what will.
- When human dignity demands that we try anyway. When I write to my representatives and they don’t listen, I don’t do it because I’ll learn something valuable from the process, or because I had to fail so that others could succeed later. But I do believe that some battles are worth fighting anyway.
And one bonus reason that’s often in the background as well:
- When we could be wrong about the likelihood of failure. In reality, we’re never actually certain that we’ll fail. But we can’t let an incorrect belief that we’ll fail be the only reason not to try.
I still allow myself not to try more often than I’d like, and that’s partially because I really do have limited time and energy and have to decide where it’s most worth spending. But if I sense that I’m reluctant to try something that falls into one of these categories, I can remind myself why sometimes failure is the right choice.