Welcome to Loserville!
Population: TBD
I’ve been thinking a lot about losing.
If you follow me on Instagram, you’ve maybe noticed that I like sports. I like watching sports, doing sports, and now, (bonus!): watching my kids do sports. And as every parent, uncle, caregiver, general human knows, when you watch a child go through something, it typically tugs your own childhood memory of that thing to the surface.
Right now, watching my kids play [insert any game, literally any game] against each other, and the lengths they will go to avoid admitting defeat are really bringing up my own issues with losing. And the more that I hear myself telling them things like, “everyone loses” or “losing is actually more interesting!” or the age-old: “No one’s gonna want to play with you if you quit the game as soon as you start losing!” the more I can feel that I’m still very much trying to learn these lessons as a forty-one-year-old supposed adult. (Wasn’t this what I was trying to learn with my original Internet project, Bon Appétempt?)
As a grown-up, of course I understand that “everyone loses” and I definitely believe that “losing is more interesting.” Losing equals vulnerability. Losing invites change (so that you can do better / win next time). But I seem to only understand this intellectually. Like, say, in an essay format. Bodily, I’m running from loss just like my seven and nine-year-old are. In my body, I can feel that I don’t want to lose anything. That my gut reaction is to try and hold on to everything I love.
If I really stick with this Substack—something I’m trying not to put pressure on myself about (see title of this Substack)—I feel like I’m going to talk about sports a lot. I’ve specifically gotten really into watching tennis. One of the things about tennis I enjoy paying attention to is the reaction of a player both when they’re losing and then also, after they’ve officially lost: when they have to go to the net and shake hands with the person who just beat them. This moment, which is kind of baked into the tradition of the sport, really runs the gamut from harsh words being exchanged, to opting out as political protest, to a rote going-through-the-motions, to a giant, seemingly heartfelt, sweaty hug. (That said, I’d also like to write about gymnastics—both doing it and being a spectator of it. Maybe some cycling since I just got way into the Tour de France… I don’t know!)
I obviously brainstormed various titles for this new endeavor (e.g. It’s Okay to Lose, Was it Worth it?, Amelia Morris Needs a Project) but ultimately settled on The Art of Losing because it’s a line from the famous Elizabeth Bishop poem, One Art, and, since I’m a writer more than an athlete (I think?), it seemed the best fit. Here’s the first stanza of the poem:
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.
The speaker of this poem sounds like me with my kids. Yes, you lost x, y, and/or z. It’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. Accept it. Accept reality and move on!
But if you keep reading the poem: the losses pile up quickly in a short amount of time, until, by the end, the speaker has lost a person—a lover, it sounds like to me. And though she won’t say that this loss is an actual disaster, she does reluctantly—“(Write it!)”—say that it may “look” like one.
I enjoy this poem for many reasons, but one is that Bishop is messing about with the word art here. Doesn’t “art” typically involve the application of skill and creativity. If there’s skill and/or talent in losing, the first thing that comes to mind is an ability to remain relaxed. A knack for not holding onto anything too tightly, a capacity to approach life with a loose grip.
And here, I think, is where my desire for a public forum comes in. Because being at peace with losing is something at which I deeply struggle, and something I’d love to, in a word, master. When one of my kids wants to quit the game of Hangman after three missed guesses (which equates to a drawn head, body, and one leg), I’m outwardly encouraging him to stay with it, that he still has “a leg and two arms! Maybe even a top hat!” “The next guess could turn this whole thing around!” I’ll say out loud, though inwardly, I get it. I did the same thing as a kid. I do similar things as a grown-up. Quitting is one way to handle losing. It’s a way out of the pain. Quitting can be a successful coping mechanism.
This—the ways we survive painful events—is deeply fascinating to me. (I’m not just talking about Hangman anymore!) Because we obviously can’t bear witness to every loss that comes our way and then, somehow make space to actually feel/process the pain we’re experiencing. But… maybe this Substack could be a place that asks: But what if we did?
What if it was okay to cry over losing at Hangman and then cry over losing at Monopoly? You could cry over spilled milk (from a leaking, just-purchased milk carton that soaks your canvas grocery bag as well as all other contents in said canvas bag) and then cry over your favorite tennis player losing and as I’m typing this, I’m thinking of a certain Bachelor contestant who was always crying and it was very funny. The Internet just helped me remember her name.
Okay, so that’s reason one for this Substack: Exploring reactions to loss.
Reason two: I’d like to maaayyybe also use this space as a catchall for some of my writing losses. I don’t know if I’ll have the guts, but I kind of want to share some of the rejected pieces I’ve sent in to the New Yorker’s Shouts and Murmurs column, essays that never got placed, and also this project I began a few months before March of 2020. It’s an illustrated memoir focusing on motherhood that stalled out after I sold Wildcat. I have about 100 pages of it—it’s called Resume Gap— and I feel like much of it still holds up.
This project was my best friend for the bulk of 2020, when everyone was stuck at home. The illustration part was something that didn’t take my full concentration and so I wasn’t as frustrated when I got interrupted one-million times a day. And so, on one hand, maybe that was all the project was supposed to be: a thing to care about during a hard time. But maybe it would also be nice to let it see the light of day? (I would need to figure out how to share it on here, ideally without repurchasing a subscription to Adobe InDesign.) (The idea of sharing some of this stuff feels very vulnerable to me, but I think a paywall will keep things manageable.)
Reason three: I kind of want to have a space to share some aspects of my own athletic journey as a middle-aged gymnast. I turn forty-two in a few months and if you’ve followed me on Instagram over the years, you’ve maybe noticed that I’m fairly committed to acquiring certain gymnastics skills.
What is up with this ambition of mine, which I know was born out of a need to play and feel strong in my body, but at this point has possibly turned into something else, e.g. a hobby gone too far? A way to prove I’m not actually middle aged even though I definitely am middle aged? Right now, aging feels like loss. I don’t like seeing the skin on my face move steadily downward and yet, I refuse major efforts (botox, fillers, etc.) to undo this process. (I’m sorry if you do these things, but let’s have a friendly conversation about it when I write in more detail on the subject!)
Reason four: I’ve finished revising (for now) a new book and so: Amelia Morris Needs a Project.
One of my favorite Substacks is my friend Kara’s called Under a Spell. It feels like a space where everything that happens is okay, where loss is okay, where mistakes are okay, and where going to Costco doesn’t involve an existential dilemma about consumerism and climate change. It’s also a very funny place. I doubt this Substack will feel like Kara’s. (I mean, I hope it will be funny sometimes! #Annaliese) But maybe this can be a place where I can work some things out, where I can try and accept my losses. I mean, either that or a place for Rafael Nadal gifs.
Let’s find out?