No Mistakes

It was the first poetry reading I’d ever given, and I’d more or less memorized the poems. They were short, most of them rhymed in some fashion, and many were written from the point of view of a character. I hadn’t intended to memorize them, but I so enjoyed reciting them aloud to myself as if they were little musical monologues, that by the time I found myself behind the microphone at that reading, I realized I didn’t need to keep my eyes pinned to the page but could instead lift my face to audience. The actor in me understood right away this was preferable. In my mind, if a group of people are all sitting quietly listening to one person, then regardless of whatever it’s called, it’s theater.

My little show was going well. I was enjoying myself, and the crowd seemed engaged. I was reciting along happily, looking out at their faces, riding the energy in the room, when I came to a stanza that began: This world ain’t mine/I was born before my time/I . . . And my mind went blank. Fortunately, I was feeling so good, and I sensed I had won a certain amount of trust from audience, that, in rhythm with the poem, I said: I . . . don’t remember the next line.

Big laugh, I checked the page, and was back in character. I heard from the organizer afterward who said she had enjoyed my reading. “Even when I forgot the poem?” I asked. “Yes!” she said. “That was my favorite part.” This didn’t really surprise me, but it was a good reminder nonetheless. I was a budding perfectionist at the time, and I often feared the ugliness of my mistakes. When people saw them, they’d know the truth about me I was trying very hard to conceal.

That truth wasn’t simply that I was human and that every human made mistakes – which, of course, we all do. No, it’s that I didn’t actually care about being perfect. Somewhere in me I sensed that getting things right didn’t matter. So, what did? Something had to matter. I knew I cared about something, and that caring was what kept me at my desk until the poem was to my liking, and what told me it was better to see the audience than to read from the page. To not care about anything would be the ugliest face of all. But if it wasn’t perfection, then what was it? I could not name what kept me going as if I were striving toward some pinnacle I’d never reach, except that when the poem felt good or the room felt good, I knew I was there.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com