"For one of us to make it through, 100 of us have to try." Man, that's "We Who Stole the 'Dream'" territory.
I woke up yesterday from a nightmare about a being part of a group of people failing hilariously, and terribly, to found an amusement park for children. "We" (the characters in the dream) didn't have any of the necessary skills. We were absolutely in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we never gave up because it never failed SO catastrophically that it got taken away from us. It just kept failing in ways that made it clear that we were never going to succeed. When I woke up, angry and frustrated and wanting to cry, my first thought was to compare it to something I read about the fictional vaudeville theater that makes up the framing story for the old The Muppet Show, how none of them except maybe Ralph were actually any good at what they were trying to do, which is why they never actually made any money or attracted any audience, but they all supported each other enough that they managed to get SOME kind of disaster onto the stage night after night for years.
Which made me think about all of the things I've ever failed at, about all the times that I proved that I was delusional to think I was going to be one of the ones who made it. Which made me think about the place in this world for all of us losers. The garage bands who play every couple of weekends in some mostly empty bar to the same six of their friends who show up for every show. The burlesque performers I know who dream of fame but who are clearly never going to make it big -- and, for that matter, the few of those I knew who got their taste of success before backstage drama blew it all up. All of us '90s era bloggers who thought that we were going to matter. Both of my failed businesses. Both of my failed attempts to start new religious movements, and all of the other NRM founders I've known, none of whom really succeeded, even the ones who are still trying to push that Sissyphean rock up the hill for the dozen or hundred followers they haven't lost yet. All of the many artists I know who've produced one or two good works, and a whole lot of mediocre work that nobody but them is ever going to care about.
And I tell myself that we matter. Blogging was an unmitigated disaster, but we got Matt Yglesias out of it. Air America was an unmitigated disaster, but we got Rachel Maddow out of it. If only 5, or 50, or even 500 people were making art, art supplies would be literally unaffordable, even to them. We creators buy the products and fund the venues that sustain the ecosystems that the successes rise out of. The 999 out of 1,000 of us who'll never succeed are necessary if anybody's going to succeed at all. I tell myself I should be proud of all the times I've tried. That I should keep trying, whenever a new idea comes along. Yep. I keep telling myself that. In my head, I know it's true. In my heart, I feel like it's a cruel as telling inner-city kids to count on the NBA to lift them out of poverty, as telling suburban little girls that they all have a chance to be Olympic gymnastic stars.
I've always told myself, "hope for success but prepare for failure." But you know, the thing is, nobody I know of who ever succeeded had a plan for what they were going to do if they failed. They had no time or attention for that. But don't lose sight of the fact that not preparing for the possible of failure doesn't protect you from the chance of failure. If 10,000 people try, the 5,000 of them who had a plan B probably all fail. But so do 4,999 of the other 5,000. I guess it really is like "We Who Stole the 'Dream'" ... it has to be worth it to you to try, knowing you'll probably fail, and if you fail, be ready to believe that your failure, your destruction, meant something, was for something, did SOME good.
Because if nobody tries, nobody will succeed. If only the people who can be reasonably sure of having a chance at succeeding try, there won't be the infrastructure, the economy, the support system for anybody to succeed.
I guess, anyway.
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