being bad at things

ok so I keep meaning to write this one and I keep not I’ve been bad at something for a while now and I think

There’s a guitar in the corner of my room. It’s been there since January. There’s a thin layer of dust on it now, which I keep noticing and keep not doing anything about.

Every couple of weeks I move it to hoover underneath and then put it back in exactly the same spot. That’s the whole relationship at this point. I move it, I put it back.

That’s me describing furniture so I don’t have to say the next bit.

I tried to learn it in January. I gave up on day nine. Not because it was hard. Because I was bad at it, and I didn’t know where to put that. Being bad felt like it was saying something about me instead of just saying something about day nine.

Which is stupid. I know it’s stupid. But I don’t think it’s only me.

When we were kids we were bad at everything. All the time, in front of everyone, and nobody made it a whole thing. You were bad at swimming. Then you were slightly less bad at swimming. Nobody ever sat you down about it.

Now everything has a level. Everything you might pick up on a Tuesday has a corner of the internet where someone is already better than you’re ever going to be, and they’ve got a nicer kitchen, and they filmed it. You can’t just be quietly rubbish at something anymore. There’s always a number to hold yourself against and it’s never the one you’re on.

So we stop. We do the stuff we’re already good at and we call it being sensible. It isn’t sensible. It’s just shrinking, politely.

And here’s the thing nobody says. Being bad isn’t the boring bit you get through to reach the good bit. It is the good bit. It’s the only time you actually surprise yourself. Once you’re decent at something you basically know what’s going to happen when you sit down. At the start you have no idea. That’s the whole point of it.

I still have a maths sheet from when I was nine. Six out of twenty, circled in red. And under it, in the most patient handwriting I’ve ever seen, two words. Keep going.

I used to think that was someone being nice about the six. I think now they were being honest about the twenty. There were fourteen left. They knew I’d get some of them eventually.

it still sounds like a door.

Nobody says that to adults. Adults get asked how it’s going, which is a question about results. And the real answer, badly, thanks, quite badly, but less badly than in March, isn’t something anyone has space for.

And honestly I don’t think the scary part is being bad. It’s being seen being bad. Someone walking in on day nine and catching you there, mid mistake, obviously not good yet. That’s the actual thing. I’m not scared of the guitar. I’m scared of someone’s face.

So do it anyway. Sign up for the thing. Buy the cheap paints. Sing it wrong and sing it loud. Be bad at it right in front of whoever’s standing there and let them think whatever they’re going to think, because they’re really not thinking about you as much as you think they are. Nobody is. Everyone’s too busy being embarrassed about their own stuff.

I picked the guitar back up. My F chord still sounds like a door closing in another room. I’m not going to be good by December, probably not ever, and I’ve decided I don’t care.

Anyway. I’m on day four this time. Which is worse than nine, I know. Ask me again in March.

keep going.