Thoughts on the perfection myth, by L.E. Taylor
ANOTHER EMAIL JUST ARRIVED from LinkedIn, the social network for career-bent strivers. This one carried an invitation to join with several of my “contacts” in a niche organization that many of them had found simpatico. In the margin was a conversation-starter question:
“What have you learned from failing?”
Notice the question did not refer to “failure.” The sponsoring group is Professional Women’s Network. The inference I was pleased to draw was that these are vocationally successful persons. They see failing as an incidental flashpoint. Otherwise, the term might well have been ‘failure,’ which connotes the act of failing not as an event, but as a habit, implying a chronic condition.
The time-worn axiom about penury comes to mind: Being broke is a temporary predicament; being poor is a frame of mind. Each signals a different impulse in given individuals: to take action or to curl up.
After one calamitous laboratory accident, a 30-ish Thomas Edison was asked by a reporter if he was discouraged having failed so many times. Edison replied cheerfully that he was, in fact, exhilarated; now he knew ninety-six things that didn’t work.
We all know at least one pet thing that doesn’t work. But in spite of the evidence, many of us stubbornly flail away at the old horse carcass without objectively adjusting assumptions. That isn’t perseverance, it’s knuckle-headedness.
But back to the business network question.
In the booming decade after World War II, peacetime spawned a quality of life previously undreamed of for most American households. Evidence of self-satisfaction soon appeared in the quaint form of an annual practice called the Christmas letter. It was usually a single typewritten page, neatly folded and inserted into each outgoing Christmas card. The narrative was a glowing report on the blessings of success, harmony, and fulfillment enjoyed by each haloed member of the extraordinary clan.
Big John’s new promotion got top billing. Mildred’s domestic talents and selfless volunteer work kept the four-bedroom dream house snug and perfect for the amazing, above average exploits of all – e.g., the State U. scholarship freshman Jack (Jr.), the baton twirling champion Susan, the adorably funny twins Lloyd and Floyd, spry forgetful Grandma Em, and even Rufus the aging sheepdog-Corgi mix who guarded the suburban model home though asleep..
Human nature being what it is, the impact upon mortal readers was predictable. No recipients who glance up from a letter of such glad tidings to view the chaos of their own domestic battleground were fooled.
In the real world there are no painless successes.
Facebook is something like that: Weekly close up snapshots of a chicken salad and a terse caption that once again Heather is having lunch with her doting, faithful hubby at TGI Friday’s becomes cloying. A quick e-blast that bachelor pal Randy is heading for yet another vacation on the beaches of Cancun seems to have no point (What, already?! Didn’t that just happen last month?).
Myriad variations on such pedestrian narcissism is summed up nicely in the neologism, “selfie”. Seldom are friends informed meaningfully by this stuff. Nor are fringe surfers rewarded with honest joy. And the robotic response of chirpy network chums is even more banal than the fluffed-up initial posting.
Scanning LinkedIn, however, I catch a whiff of substance. More than idle bragging, there resonates in these exchanges a sense of purpose. Self-promotion, sure. So what? (If not by you, then who?) Individuals are actually trying to accomplish things. They are living mobile business lives – upwardly, laterally, or maybe in a circle, but they aren’t just sitting there ‘liking’ each other. It’s about work.
So, I’m all for it. Yes, my capitalist sisters, if you’ll have me as a brother-in-arms auxiliary of the Professional Women’s Network, I’m in. Maybe we can do something to help each other, even if only by encouragement or offering grief-saving tips on what works and what is fool’s gold. Come, sit here by me – wise, harmless old Uncle Larry.
I don’t have to wear a red hat, do I?
Part Two: 3 common failures and their lessons