How I Overcame The Embarrassment Of Sharing Creative Work

Wearing the wrong underwear isn’t just a fashion faux pas; it’s downright dangerous.

When I decided to purchase a motorbike, I had visions of looking like James Dean. After test driving a real motorbike, I envisioned looking like raw mincemeat smeared across gravel. A 50cc scooter seemed like a classier choice. Safer, sure. But if Gregory Peck could scoot Audrey Hepburn around Rome looking cool, surely I could Vespa around my city looking cool-ish. Unfortunately, I looked exactly like I was — an accident waiting to happen.

Or should I say accidents? At the time, you didn’t need a motorbike licence to ride a scooter. All you needed was the stupidity required to think it was a good idea. Accidents seemed to be a semi-regular occurrence as I was learning to ride. The first time I nearly died, I broke too late at a stoplight only to hear an almighty screech growing louder behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know I was about to die. The hairs on my neck stood at attention. A shiver shot up my spine. I hunched my shoulders. I closed my eyes and immediately heard nothing. Was I dead? Was that it? The screeching had stopped, but somehow I was still alive. I looked behind me and up and up and further up until I found a terrified truck driver perched inside a 40-ton truck. We locked eyes, and he graciously performed the international gesture for ‘that was close’ and pretended to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Riding motorbikes combines guts and idiocy, and so does sharing creative work. There’s an extraordinary sense of freedom while flying on two wheels. Every thrill requires danger. Being exposed to the elements is exhilarating. Sharing creative work exposes it and you to the elements; it’s dangerous, there will be accidents, and you will get hurt. Not if. Not when. But repeatedly. You may even hurt others. My writing has undoubtedly hurt my Mother at times. We can all think of examples of creativity sparking outrage and even murder in the case of Charlie Hebdo. Even if you play it safe and don’t offend another soul. Sharing your work will hurt. It will also give you positive things, but getting hurt is guaranteed.

I remember watching a documentary about MotoGP. You know, those nutcases who take corners so fast that their knees touch the racetrack. In the film, an expert said that a significant factor in the career of a successful motorbike driver is their ability to heal quickly. Sure, talent comes into it, but you will have accidents, and you will get injured, and if you can’t heal as soon as your competition, you physically can’t put in the hours, and you can’t become a champion. Sorry. Sharing creative work is the same, but your heart gets hurt, not your neck. Your novel won’t get accepted by publishers, your architecture plans will get knocked back by the client, and your comedy routine will bomb. How quickly can you heal? How can you find the strength and determination to keep going when creative failure is just so damn painful and embarrassing?

In the immediate aftermath of judgment, ‘toughen up’ is bad advice. After all, if it doesn’t hurt when your work is rejected, publicly stomped on or simply met with constructive criticism, it probably means that it wasn’t personal enough in the first place. If it didn’t mean anything to you, then who cares if no one likes it and why bother trying to improve it? But if it did mean something to me and it was an act of vulnerability to share it, I allow myself space to feel like crap for a bit. But only a bit. Then, yes, I toughen up and get back on the bike.

But how does one keep taking the hits week after week without being frozen by the fear of embarrassment? It helps to get into a motorbike accident.

So there I was, standing with the scooter between my legs at one of the busiest intersections in the city. I hadn’t had the scooter for long, was still learning and was standing in pole position at the front of my lane. I was surrounded by hundreds of people stuck in peak hour traffic on their way to work. Cantankerous commuters about to get a hefty dose of dopamine at my expense. A dollop of schadenfreude.

The lights go green. I accelerate. The scooter shoots out from between my legs, does a wheely, flies from my hands and speeds, on its own, towards the middle of the intersection. All the drivers panic and slam on their breaks! My scooter stalls and crashlands in the centre of the intersection, blocking traffic in all directions. I was still standing at the head of my lane, frozen in shock, when everyone’s eyes darted from the driverless scooter to me.

And then my pants fell down.

Creative breakthroughs come in all shapes and sizes, but mine arrived at age twenty, with my pants around my ankles and wearing a novelty Christmas gift — satin boxer shorts emblazoned with red love hearts.

The only other time I’ve seen so many hands move in unison was at a Paul McCartney concert. The whole intersection pointed at me. I saw drivers doubling over, unable to drive. I saw passengers grabbing onto one another because the chortling was too much to bear. Everywhere I turned looked like a Google search for ‘cliched stock photography of people pointing and laughing.’ Nobody attempted to help or even bypass the fallen scooter and continue driving to work. Why would you with free entertainment like this?

In hindsight, I should’ve pulled up my pants as quickly as possible and dashed to my bike, but I was too discombobulated and concerned with retrieving my scooter to think straight. Instead, I waddled towards it like a penguin, only pulling up my pants as I took centre stage of the intersection.

It was an out-of-body experience, I was the flustered, pantless loser retrieving his scooter, but I was also able to see it from their perspective — I was a gift, sent down to brighten their day and give them something to talk about at work. I didn’t know whether to run and hide or take a bow.

All the ordinary human worries echoing in their heads as they trudged to the office suddenly vanished at my expense. Life was instantaneously seen for what it really is — a nonsensical accident.

I’ve never read ancient Sanskrit, but I’m pretty sure there’s a parable in there somewhere about the importance of letting your pants drop in front of strangers. I was suddenly free. Unlocked. Enlightened to the fact that I needn’t fear embarrassment ever again. I could throw myself at creative endeavours come what may. I could throw myself at anything! I had transformed into someone who no longer feared getting egg on their face.

That accident was twenty years ago. Since then, I’ve danced like nobody’s watching even though I charged them tickets to watch me dance. I’ve joined in on sporting games without a lick of coordination. Bathed naked on television. Sung out of tune, dared to call it a song and introduced myself as a writer despite being dyslexic.

You can’t be prolific if you’re worried about embarrassment, but this doesn’t only apply to work; it’s a way to approach life. Are we embarrassed when we cook for people and accidentally burn the cake? Of course. Still, we cook. Do we feel embarrassed about our bodies at the public pool? Yes. Does it stop us from swimming? I hope not. Does it feel crappy to lose at cards every time I play cards with my wife? Yes. But I don’t want to rob her of the pleasure of playing just because I’m too proud to lose.

Do I still get self-conscious when a project flops? Yes, but it doesn’t stop me from starting the next one. If we only get involved in things we know will work in our favour, we’d never learn anything.

In fact, I believe that refusing to participate out of fear of looking silly is a form of selfishness. It robs you of a learning experience and robs others of the joy of laughing at your expense. It’s fun to laugh at people. That’s why the Germans have a word for it. Speaking of Germans. You might be asking, can you take this epiphany too far? Yes, yes you can. I once met a German businessman who suddenly decided that life wasn’t meant to be taken seriously at the age of forty. He started dressing like a clown 24/7, full make-up, costume, red nose, the works. Twenty-four seven! Within a year, he got fired from his job, divorced by his wife and estranged from his children. Relinquishing the fear of embarrassment doesn’t mean deliberately playing the fool.

People talk about writer’s block. I’ve never had it, and I suspect it has something to do with my lack of fear of embarrassment. Does that make me Shakespeare? No. But it does help sustain the perilous path of continually showing up, doing the work and sharing it with confidence.

My scootering life stopped about eighteen years ago when I drove my future wife home from a bar in her car because she was too drunk to drive. When she returned me the following day the scooter was gone. Stolen. I never rode again.

A year ago, I was saying goodbye to a colleague who’d been riding motorbikes his whole life. It was bucketing down with rain, and I asked him if he was okay to ride home in the storm. Did he want me to give him a lift in my car? He smiled almost excitedly and said, “If you’re gonna ride motorbikes, getting rained on is part of the deal.”

If you’re gonna share creative work, feeling embarrassed is part of the deal.

This is the first essay I’ve written on Medium and if you think I’ve embarrassed myself yet again — you can pucker up and kiss my satin undies.