The Necessity of Failure · 1:20am Oct 12th, 2014
If I had a nickel every time I heard someone say nobody’s perfect, I’d have about three bucks. Seriously, a nickel isn’t worth that much. Regardless, the point of the saying still stands. I’ve heard how nobody’s perfect so often because it’s true. Whether you nod your head or roll your eyes when you hear it, we all understand it to be true.
For lack of a better word, how awesome is that? That’s the thread that unifies all of humanity. Somewhere, sometime, somehow, we weren’t good enough. Every last one of us.
This is a powerful factor when you’re writing a story. This idea can help make a character more than words on a page, more than a lifeless, soulless vessel. Failure makes a character relatable, and that is the first step in avoiding stereotypes or blatant wish fulfillment.
Even in some famous examples…
What kind of superhero would let a crook run right past him? The kind that wouldn’t expect that crook to murder his father figure just minutes later.
According to the internet, Theodore Roosevelt once said, “In any moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”
Doing nothing was the choice Spider-Man made, and it cost him the life of a loved one. His failure to act changed his life more than the radioactive spider did. Would he have decided to become a crime fighter if he didn’t see firsthand how his power could have saved a life?
Indecision was the motivation behind Robert Frost’s immortal lines:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Perhaps more to the point is this quote from a punk rock song inspired by the poem: “And wondering, you can rack your skull.” Choices have consequences, even when we choose to do nothing. What could have happened if Spider-Man chose to stop the crook? How would life be different?
I’ve been there. I’ve failed to act before. How poor is my life compared to what could have been? What friends could I have made? What lessons could I have learned? Where would I be now?
Spider-Man was a relatable character. He was a nerdy teenager gifted with physical abilities far beyond the jocks he had to put up with, but he was grounded by his failure. While he was superhuman, he was still human.
And that’s the trick. That’s how you make an audience care about a character if they’re human, a candy colored equine, or even a 6’3”, 235 pound space alien that somehow looks exactly like a human being and is empowered by our own sun with the ability to destroy our entire world about fifty different ways.
“BULLSHIT!” I can hear some of you shout, “how does he fail?”
Every day in every way. There’s a fantastic scene in Superman Returns that shows this beautifully. High in the sky, with the woman he loves in his arms, he asks what she hears. Why does he ask this question?
“I hear everything. You wrote that the world doesn’t need a savior, but everyday I hear people crying for one.”
What would Superman be hearing in that scene? Gunshots? Sirens? Death screams? All of the above? All the time?
That’s how he fails. Superman, with all his abilities, can’t be in two places at once. He has the power to do practically anything, but he can’t do everything. He can’t save them all. One of the most powerful characters ever created can never live up to his potential.
Failure is, of course, only half the story in these two examples. Superman wouldn’t be Superman if he folded on himself on a daily basis. How a character reacts to failure is also an important part of the equation. Do they give up or press on? What’s their motivation?
There is no better example than Phoenix Wright of Thomas Edison’s quote, “I have not failed. I’ve just found ten thousand ways that won’t work.”
Every trial is a test of endurance for him. Every day spent investigating a case raises questions that need to be answered. Every day in court is a test of endurance and willpower. The evidence he presents is explained away, and the theories he proposes are dismissed until finds the concrete proof to support them.
Slogging through stubborn witnesses, confronting the lies in their testimony, battling the prosecution every step of the way, Phoenix throws everything he has against the wall in his search for his ultimate goal: the truth.
Each mistake brings him one step closer to the truth. Each theory that is proven wrong eliminates a possibility. Each train of thought is derailed until there is only one left to carry him to that goal.
One goal. And ten thousand ways to fail. Have you ever felt like that? Have you ever worried and worried and overanalyzed every step in a process, sure that some catastrophe was waiting around the next corner? I have. I’ve worried that if I don’t get this or that just right, everything I’m trying to do will collapse around me. Just ask my editor.
And you know what? Everything collapsing may not be such a bad thing. At the very least, you could certainly see how things collapsed. You can see what went wrong for when you build again.
Which brings us full circle. Is there a reason Spider-Man is popular enough for two different trilogies of movie in two different decades? Is there a reason Superman is still relevant as a character after the interest in an almighty being from another world should have run its course? Is there a reason a lawyer from a Japanese import grew to the popularity he has now?
On some level, all these characters are relatable. And the funny thing is that that connection runs both ways.
I still remember a comment I got on one of my romance stories. The commenter thanked me for writing it, saying the story reminded them of their husband and them. When a reader connects with a character, they don’t just see themselves in the character. They see the character in them, too.
And that is a great power of characterization. Morals and lessons don’t need to be beaten over someone’s head. A character can teach through their actions alone. Failure can be a way to connect a character with a reader, and also a way for a reader to learn about this most basic human feeling.
A line from one of my stories I’ve always liked is, “Failure can’t change who you are.” Failure is... well, a failing. Breaking news, right? It’s a sign that we can still do better. It tells us what isn’t working so we can figure out what will.
And it stings. Of course it stings. It’s supposed to sting. But sting is all it does. Failure can’t change who we are, but we can. Will you fold or will you grow?
Go forth, and fail spectacularly!
I've failed many times myself (see my earlier stories for proof, disregarding the like-to-dislike ratio in the process. You'll thank me later.) I am re-writing two of my earlier stories as of now, and have already novelized one of those rewrites. But I am improving nonetheless.
You sir have given great advice to the community as a whole. 
Can I have your children?
2526779
Oof, those early story regrets. I've got 'em too.
Feels good moving past them, huh? Glad to hear you're making progress, and thanks for reading.
2526868 Anytime. I even went red-and-black alicorn at one point.
Words of true wisdom.
Failure is not just a necessity. It's a part of life.
2527710
Indeed. We're still kids burning our hands on a hot stove. All we can do is learn.
2527804 It's how we grow.
Damn, this is a good one. Yes, failure is a universal constant. And it's the one thing everyone's good at.
2526779
Hey now, I called dibs.