The Art of Trying

Read-Along Song: Underground by Cody Fry

I’m not an expert on anything. That’s not the shocking realization anyone really wants or expects, but one that comes at the hands of failure. Tonight I was listening to the hiss of my radiator growling to drown out the strums of the two guitar chords I’ve been alternating between over and over. Plucking the E and A open major chords, I pretended to sing a song. And then the words come out soft, a whisper under the crackle of heat.

Can’t compare, just clearly my mind’s impaired. 

A clank from the corner of the room stopped me in my tracks. The jet streams of airplanes hovering into Logan filled the silence between the bars. Something was happening, I didn’t know what, but I’d be damned if I let the moment end without a drawn-out whole note. And on and on I went. I’m not sure for how long, but the sun was gone, and the electric candle’s timer clicked on illuminating the room with its fake flicker. 

I’ll probably never be a rockstar, or a famous writer, or really anyone that puts a dent in the history books. The thought isn’t in a defeatist sort of fashion either, rather it’s the knowledge that the cards are stacked. I don’t think it’s particularly pessimistic to look at life that way, but it certainly pounds away at me. We have our time and then it’s over. A brief pause walking across the stage of the universe. And when you gaze into the crowd, there’s nothing but empty seats and stars. 

These days it feels like everyone wants to be someone. TikTok, TV, a sexy voice on the radio, everyone has their idea of what it means to have clout. Putting a face on for the camera and editing away the imperfections. It’s a vain contention, maybe. And for a time, I’ll admit, I felt that way too. I wanted to be seen, heard, and feel the validation soak into my veins like an IV. Hell, maybe that’s why I started this blog. The desire for thousands of voices telling me I was doing a good job, when in actuality there wasn’t going to be even one. So, sitting there with the guitar between my arms I knew this would be it. Me sitting alone in my apartment with nothing but the streetlamps glowing outside and my two dumb chords. Just another sad boy with a guitar. I’ll get better, maybe professional level someday- but that’s the extent of it.

And damn I don’t even know if you’re there.

And that’s fine. Acceptance is a powerful thing depending on where you aim it. It’s no secret that people do the coolest shit when no one is watching. Because that’s the beauty of the Internet: you can always shut it off. I quit looking at tutorials on my phone for a minute, and just sat there breathing the air in front of me. Holding the inherited Washburn tight in the bucket of my forearms, I pulled it in close and apologized for leaving it alone for so many years. I had forgotten where it had come from to find me, and while I was at it, forgotten where I had come from too. 

Last night in the newsroom while I was wrapping up an article draft that my eyes had glazed over a million times, a coworker patted me on the back. Two soft friend pats you’d do after the first date with someone you’re not sure you like yet. Like how proud suburban fathers are supposed to do when their son scores a goal or brings home a good grade. I tilted my head. 

“Really good job today, let’s do it again tomorrow.” They were out the door. I looked up and found I was the last one in the room. Everyone else had gone home for the night. Placing my head in the basket of my palms on the desk, I replayed the words over and over. I hadn’t heard those in what felt like a millennium, or at least not in equity to the chanting going the other way in my head. I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cheer. But I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I sat there alone breathing the air behind me, and tapped my desk with a pen.

I wasn’t looking for praise, yet there it was sitting on my doorstep. Like a surprise visit from a friend, and a warm hug after not seeing them for so long. And so it went on, the learning curve got steeper and the chorus gasped for another refrain. But sitting there, with a dorky smile spread across my face, I remembered that, incredibly, I still remained despite everything. 

That’s the art of trying, I think. Not becoming an expert. Never letting the applause control the meaning. Cherishing the natural compliments if they come. Accepting it might not work out. But doing it anyway, whatever it is. Even if you think it’ll lead nowhere. Even if no one is watching. I’ve been avoiding stealing Nike’s slogan, but they had it right. So, I’ll do it for myself if you do too. I can’t wait to hear all about it. For me, I’ll keep strumming these dumb chords till the calluses on my fingers give out.

Thanks for that, I guess.