it's ok to start

shedding the ego of amateurism.

'Do you trust me?'

These were the words my flatmate said as she was doing my nails. She had taken a nail course while travelling in Bali, and was now attempting to branch out from doing her own nails, tools strewn across the low table. We sat opposite on cushions on the floor. 'I do, actually', I replied. It was true. In the short time I've known her, I've learned that she is a woman who loves to try (and succeed at) new things. As it happens, my nails look beautiful and I write this occasionally glancing at them admiringly.

I haven't always let myself be a beginner. As a kid, I would quit early if I wasn't good at something straight away. Unsurprisingly, this was most things: swimming, piano, tap dance. I felt followed by a burning embarrassment and shame each time I failed. It seemed to cement a truth I feared: that I was not talented and never would be. They say a jack of all trades is a master of none. I took that to heart, focusing on writing. Even then, I was doubtful and uncertain. I dared not take myself too seriously. What I failed to acknow­ledge was the rest of this aphorism: though oftentimes better than master of one.

As I walked through Greenwich Park recently, listening to Bob Dylan, a thought entered my mind: I want to play guitar. I see poetry and lyric as two sides of the same coin—I was interested in marrying these two passions of mine. As I turned the corner into the market, I found myself by a guitar shop. I stepped in, peering at gleaming curves of wood and vinyl adorning the walls—a cosy space, with dark wood panelling and a sofa welcoming customers. Yes, I could see myself playing in here, I thought. I enquired about lessons and before I had a chance to back out, I was booked in the following week. Serendipitously, I found a Fender acoustic guitar for £35 in a charity shop before my first lesson. Knowing little about guitars, but discerning that it seemed in good condition with a case included, I left shortly after with the guitar slung over my shoulder, feeling triumphant. The second step.

I've only been learning for a few weeks and who knows if it will last but, crucially, I've been enjoying myself. My guitar teacher reminds me, ‘we're here to make music’. I might not be the next Jimi Hendrix and that's ok. Music, for now, is fine.

The thing about being a beginner is that it's catching, this boldness and audacity rolls into other parts of our lives. I've never considered myself much of an artist, especially since I have a sister who can draw well, however, I love art and watercolour in particular. Thankfully, the rules of art are notoriously ambiguous, and there's always a rubber (that's an eraser, for the Americans. A great invention too, I might add).

My other flatmate and I sat together one evening recently, drawing and painting. I chose to trust my instincts—the desire and impulse to create which is so strong in many of us—if only we care to notice.

Van Gogh was considered a failed artist in his lifetime—now, he is lauded as one of the most innovative and successful in history. Opinions change but one thing is constant: humans were born to try. It's how so many 'failed’ proto­types are now crucial inventions. We are innately curious beings.

It's tempting to relegate explanations of our hesitations to begin as laziness or a lack of time. Even when we do concede to fear as a factor, this is often framed through the lens of failure. But what if there's another truth lying deep at the core, the possibility of what we're truly capable of?

This isn't to suggest I have developed delusions of grandeur, or that all this is in pursuit of widespread recognition and acclaim. It is only to say that it's ok to start. It doesn't have to be shameful. In fact, it can be fun.

Really.

A picture I drew and painted the other evening.