Tonight, I’ll be taking my youngest son trick-or-treating.
Although I’m not sure “taking him” is the right description.
He has apparently developed a detailed candy acquisition strategy designed to cover the entire neighborhood, hit as many houses as possible, and move between them at something approaching a full sprint.
His goal is simple:
Maximum candy. Minimal time.
My role is to follow behind him, overseeing his progress as the primary investor in his costume materials, while pretending this is a perfectly normal way for a middle-aged man to spend Halloween.
Of course, as an investor, I have certain expectations.
Because the more candy he acquires, the larger the return on my annual Dad Tax.
So while he’s mapping out the most efficient route through the neighborhood, I’ll be calculating projected tax revenue, evaluating the quality of available assets, and making some difficult decisions about the long-term composition of my candy portfolio.
Kit Kats will obviously be a core holding.
Halloween can be scary.
But I’ve discovered there are few things more frightening than watching your kid sprint to the next cul-de-sac while you’re still trying to catch your breath from the last one.
And lately, I’ve been thinking about another kind of scary.
The kind that comes from being a beginner again.
When we’re young, being new at something is expected. We don’t know how to do things, so we ask questions. We make mistakes. We watch other people. We try again.
Nobody thinks much of it.
But somewhere along the way, that changes.
We get older. We become experienced. We spend years getting good at what we do. And eventually, knowing what we’re doing starts to feel normal.
Comfortable, even.
Which makes it surprisingly unsettling when life puts us somewhere new and we suddenly don’t have all the answers anymore.
I’ve had more moments like that lately than I expected.
Moments where I’ve had to listen more than I talk. Ask questions I wish I already knew the answers to. Watch others do things effortlessly that requires my full concentration.
And I’ve realized something.
I’d forgotten what it feels like to be new.
Writing my first psychological thriller has reminded me of that, too.
I’ve written eleven novels now. There are certain things about writing a Blake Jordan book that feel familiar to me. I understand the rhythm. I know the character’s world. I know the kinds of stories I want to tell. And I know the kinds of stories my readers like.
This book is different.
Different kind of story. Different voice. Different instincts. Different… everything.
There are days I sit down to write and feel like I should know what I’m doing by now.
After eleven books, shouldn’t I?
But I’m starting to think that’s the wrong question.
Maybe experience isn’t supposed to eliminate the feeling of being a beginner.
Maybe experience gives us enough confidence to become one again.
Because there’s a strange trap that comes with getting good at something.
The better we become, the easier it is to stay where we’re already competent. To choose the familiar, safe thing. The thing we know we’ll probably succeed at.
There’s nothing wrong with that.
But if we’re not careful, competence can become another kind of comfort zone.
Sometimes growth looks like knowing exactly what to do.
And sometimes it looks like asking the question.
Making the mistake.
Feeling a little lost.
Saying, I don’t know yet.
That last word matters.
Because not knowing yet isn’t failure.
It just means there’s still something left to learn.
So I’m trying to get a little more comfortable with being uncomfortable. With not having every answer. With occasionally feeling like the least experienced person in the room.
Maybe being a beginner is supposed to feel a little scary.
And maybe we shouldn’t be so afraid of it.
Because if you always know exactly what you’re doing, you stop putting yourself in situations that can change you into someone you haven’t met yet, but need to become.
And that might be the scariest thing of all. -Ken