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The tiniest scrape exposes the fragility of it all: any of my ‘achievements’ are so complex they are sullied — each ‘success’ might be more accurately defined as a composite of failures.
When I was trying to become a professional basketballer, I asked a psychologist: when exactly does self-belief become self-delusion? He laughed like I had made a funny joke and I was pleased by his amusement but I was also serious.
The definitions feel absurdly and dangerously close to each other:
self-belief
noun
/ˌself.bəˈliːf/
confidence in one’s judgment;
belief in one’s capacity to complete a task or achieve a goal;
trust in one’s own abilities.
self-delusion
noun
/ˌself.dɪˈluː.ʒən/
a process of denying or rationalising away the relevance, significance, or importance of opposing evidence and logical argument;
the act of allowing oneself to believe something that is not true;
the state of deceiving oneself about one’s abilities.
I consistently allow myself to believe in my capacity to achieve [a goal] — a reality that does not currently exist and can therefore be categorised as something that is not true. I have confidence in my judgment of this capacity, even when there is an abundant amount of opposing evidence. It seems probable that, to allow for the continued pursuit of the goal, I might be incidentally denying or rationalising away the relevance, significance, or importance of this evidence. I could be ignoring all logical arguments. I could be deceiving myself.
uh-oh
exclamation
/ˈʌˌəʊ/
an expression of alarm, dismay, or realisation of a difficulty.
I must, although it doesn’t always feel like it, have trust in my own abilities … but what is the difference between that and being utterly duped by my desires? It seems like the only difference is outcome, so am I just within the nebulous bracket of self-[belief/delusion] until the outcome comes out? Or do I assume self-belief until the goal is un/attained and my ability is dis/proven, at which time I can then either confirm my mental fortitude or sheepishly acknowledge that my aspirations were misguided and unrealistic?
What if the outcome takes a while? What if the outcome takes more than a while? When is the logical expiration date of belief that prompts the transition from self-[undefined] into pure, rigorous, inescapable delusion?
The biography on my website states,
‘Each of [my] careers have hauled themselves forward in parallel: demarcated consistently, enduringly, by failure.’
Nobody, even the luckiest, whisks through their life without encountering failure. But the quantity of that failure, depending on circumstance and character, varies drastically. As someone who has, if there was a scale, been nursed by experiences closer to the threshold of you suck than wow, you’re great, I fear I have naturally also been treated to larger doses of delusion. Am I resilient or obtuse? Humble or narcissistic? Gallantly ambitious or farcical?
When exactly, I said to the psychologist, does self-belief become self-delusion? and it was posed in the context of me pursuing a basketball career, but it could be as easily applied to any realm of my life, including as a writer.
I concluded the only reason I have been able to persist in art and sport is because I am a contradiction:
I have such a big ego it allows me to keep going (I believe I can be good enough);
I have such a small ego it allows me to keep going (I can tolerate constant rejections because I assume I am not good enough).
In a lot of ways, I am accustomed to not succeeding. It is familiar to me; it secretly makes sense. There might be some who snort at that, because I am signed to a professional sporting team, or I’ve worked with photographers, or it’s reported I have a book contract, but the tiniest scrape across the coruscation exposes the fragility of it all: any of my ‘achievements’ are so complex they are sullied — each ‘success’ might be more accurately defined as a composite of failures.
I use the word failure to describe my current self sometimes and friends flinch in condemnation and pat me on the shoulder. But failure is not an ugly word.
The art I have created, that has sought and eventually been granted permission to enter the world, are composites: even after their acceptance, the pieces remain tinged with the rejections they have accumulated.
I find myself returning to the notions of resilience and shame, of belief and delusion, of success and failure. I am drawn to the journey of art being art itself. It feels like not preserving, or at least drawing on, these journeys in some way causes cavities within the fuller dialogue. It carves out an absence, blunts nuance.
This is a protracted way to introduce a new little series called Running On Timelines that maps the life of a creative project before its release: from conception through submission cycles. An early incarnation of the series was published in December 2021, although the story was not a physical work but an entire year.
I opened the essay with a recalcitrant apology:
I repeat, and intensify, the apology for ROT #2 which explores the journey of the turning, an essay about women and sport. Its timeline is gruelling and boring and truly, hilariously, mortifying. That is your warning.
ROT #2: the turning
Are there rules, conventions, some secret but fundamental etiquette when it comes to pitching and submitting and persisting? Likely. Has anyone told me them? They have not.