As an uber nerd, there’s no real life event that I can’t relate to fiction in some way. While I want to give you tips on dealing with and learning from failure, I didn’t want to go it alone. So I’ve included advice from the most reliable (fictional) source I could find: Batman. (Bonus points if you read this entire post in a raspy Batman voice.)
In “Batman Begins,” a young Bruce falls down a well, and his father, Thomas, comes to his rescue. While carrying Bruce back into the house, Thomas utters one of my favorite lines in the movie:
“And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”
I love this not only because it’s influential throughout the film, but also because it reveals a truth about failure that we don’t often hear.
..and Clovis the Cow trotted out of the barnyard and in the general direction of New York City, despite Farmer Bob’s heart-rending pleas for him to come back.
Boy, what an ending. Satisfying. Fulfilling my soul.
Or not. It might just be me, but I see a lot of loose ends lying around. Will Clovis ever return to the farm? How will Farmer Bob manage without him? And how will Clovis react when he stumbles across the inevitable realization that cows are actually female?
I don’t think I’ve ever written a one-hundred percent happy ending in one of my stories.
Except for my first story, a soaring epic titled How Jery Rat Kild Thu Monstr, my endings usually deal out a heavy dose of sad along with the happy, and sometimes just a little more sad.
And not because I just really enjoy depressing myself and other people. For me, a ending that’s not all happy makes for a more thought-provoking and fulfilling story.
I love tools. Cool, new, shiny tools. Sometimes, I get so excited by the coolness of a tool that I forget what I’m supposed to be using it for. Instead of pounding in nails with that perfectly-balanced framing hammer, I’m swinging it around my head and alternating guttaral war cries with humming the soundtrack of The Last Samurai.
Some would say that words are a writer’s greatest weapon. I would disagree.
In the event of being charged by an angry stegosaurus, a 50-caliber elephant gun would be preferable to standing your ground and attempting to stave off the beast with your impressive vocabulary. (Unless by your loquacity you are able to convince the creature that it is, in fact, extinct.)
Where actual writing is concerned, I would say that words are pretty darn important, but second only to your creativity. The power of your imaginative, oft-misunderstood right brain.
I should probably preface by saying that I am the least-qualified person in the world to be writing this post.