“The continuous movement back and forth from the specific instance to general significance, from fact to meaning, from sensory and emotional to the intellectual — such is the art of the essay.”
— Carol Burke and Molly Best Tinsley
This quotation begins the course description for Stanford’s The Art of the Essay, a class that explores narrative structure and the combination of reflection with direction.
How do we become good writers?
I have always been in awe of people who can weave worlds with their words, people who speak with such clarity and conviction that you are drawn toward their mission. I aspire to achieve that someday.
Right now, I am objectively a bad writer. This is a fact. But that does not mean I cannot become a good writer in the future. The act of doing is what takes us from potential to realization.
Writing requires us to examine familiar statements more deeply, arrive at meaningful conclusions about our intellectual and emotional lives, and then express those conclusions clearly. My goal is to do that in a way that transcends the limitations of being a “bad writer.” Before I can become better, however, I have to brutally eliminate the fear of trying. Something that I have done through various activities in the past. In fact, nothing I am good at today came naturally.
My dad always told me, “jack of all trades, master of none.” You do too many different things. You hop around too much. Focus.
Sometimes, I feel as though my life resembles the Cantor set. This is perhaps an unexpected abstraction, but the comparison makes sense to me. The Cantor set is constructed through continuous removal, the middle third is taken away, then the middle thirds of what remains, and so on. From a distance, it can appear fragmented, as though it consists mainly of gaps. Yet it is still uncountably infinite. My life can look similarly discontinuous, an assortment of interests, abandoned paths, new beginnings, and constant oscillation. But perhaps those apparent gaps are not evidence of emptiness. Perhaps they contain more possibilities than anyone can see.
There has been too much oscillation. But maybe that oscillation comes from eliminating the fear of trying.
“Everything I’m not made me everything I am”
— Everything I Am, Kanye West
I used to be terrible at multiplication. I struggled to complete simple calculations during my kindergarten exams.
I sat at my desk with the teacher looking down at my paper. If only I could ask her for some help, I wish she could give me a hint. My mind was blank as I watched the clock tick, the only thing I could think of was how disappointed my mother was going to be in me.
— 5-year-old Sutharsika
My teacher believed in me more than I believed in myself. With time, multiplication became much easier. I used to be an average dancer, at best, firmly mid-tier in my class. Then a new student joined my dance class and began motivating me through competition. Competition forces you to become better or fall behind. I needed to be the best. The feeling was overwhelming and all-consuming, but eventually, I became a much better dancer than I had initially been.
I struggled with running, unable to complete a mile in under ten minutes. With practice, I improved at that too. The first cakes I baked were too dense or too sweet. I overwhipped the cream and made countless other mistakes. It was the feedback of the people around me, and my relentless desire to improve that kept me going.
If someone else can do it, so can I. Nothing can take that belief away from me. In fact, I sometimes believe it is the only skill I have. It is not really a skill, but rather the fundamental conviction that I can do anything I set my mind to. It sounds like something Kanye West might have said in an interview.
As this belief strengthened, some things began to feel easier. I became more carefree, although perhaps that was not always the best decision. Confidence can convince you that wanting something is enough, when wanting is only the beginning.
I hate the statement “fake it until you make it.” It diminishes the amount of work it actually takes to make it. Instead, make it. Keep trying until you truly make it. Faking your way forward leaves you feeling empty inside. I would rather try extremely hard and fail than lie my way to success.
That is also to say that I have failed many, many times. I have been rejected by many, many things.
“There’s a saying that goes, the devil doesn’t waste energy on the souls he already has. Think about it: the tempting path is often the one that’s easy, quick, and glamorous. So when hardships come knocking and it feels like the devil is throwing everything at you, perhaps it’s because you’re on to something right. Embrace the struggle; it’s often a sign you’re on the path to something truly meaningful.”
— Uncle Iroh
I watched Avatar: The Last Airbender at a time when everything in my life felt as though it had come crashing down. Internally, I was deeply regretful of the life I had led for the past few years. Externally, I had to pretend that everything was fine. A facade to my true emotions, and I had no one to confide in. After all, I believed it was my own fault (and it was).
Looking back, however, this was the perfect time for me to watch Avatar. Zuko’s character arc resonated with me in a way it could not have at any other period of my life. Through him, I began to understand where I had gone wrong, and, more importantly, that my failures were not the end of the world. Zuko did eventually become the Fire Lord.
Looking back, that was the most transformative period of my life to date.
So many of my preconceived notions about what it meant to live a meaningful life, and what it meant to be successful, came crashing down. That was the best thing that could have happened. I had been discovered.
They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! —
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”
— Edgar Allan Poe
The moment when the narrator can no longer maintain the performance and finally reveals that he committed the murder. The pressure of concealment becomes more unbearable than the consequences of being seen.
There is a particular freedom in being discovered, in being authentically yourself. Once the facade collapses, you no longer have to protect the person you were pretending to be. You can begin again, not from the image you created, but from the truth.
Today, my list of hobbies is expansive. I hike, crochet, play soccer, dance Bharatanatyam, paint, bake, and much more. My interests may appear scattered, but they are connected by the same backbone, the elimination of the fear of trying. I would rather become a beginner repeatedly than remain trapped within the boundaries of what I already know how to do. Developing neuroplasticity.
That does not mean every attempt will become a lifelong pursuit. It does not mean I will master everything. The purpose of trying is not always mastery. Sometimes, the purpose is simply to discover what you are capable of becoming.
An oath to writing more. In the meantime, do not be afraid to try, and believe in yourself. I am grateful to the people who believed in me when I did not believe in myself. There is also a distinction between doing and performing the appearance of doing. One of my small pet peeves is hearing people repeatedly announce how busy they are or how much work they have and what they are doing. The people who are truly doing things rarely spend much time explaining how busy they are. More importantly, they still make time for what matters.
Showing up for the people you love is part of the act of doing. Ambition means very little if it prevents you from caring for others. What is life, after all, if not the people we love, our shared humanity, and the pursuit of our passions?
The fear of trying asks us to protect ourselves from embarrassment, rejection, and failure. The act of doing asks us to accept all three. Each time we choose to begin anyway, potential becomes something tangible. We may not become masters of everything we attempt. We may fail, oscillate, and start over. But perhaps a life well lived is not defined by perfect continuity. Perhaps it is defined by the courage to keep moving from possibility to realization, from thought to action, and from fear to doing.