Low expectations

and not knowing what happens next

There was a man outside the Phillip Island circus who told us that you only go to the circus three times in your life: Once as a kid, once when you have kids and once when you have grandkids.

It was presented as fact, not opinion.

And honestly, it probably holds if you’re talking about S****** Circus in Melbourne, which I remember mainly for the elderly strongman in the leopard print loincloth (this may or may not be accurate).

This circus however, Eroni’s, completely ruined the man’s theory.

It was genuinely excellent. Not in a ‘welp, the kids liked it,’ or ‘it’s good to support them’ kind of a way, but in a we-didn’t-stop-grinning-the-whole-time kind of a way.

The trapeze artists looked like they might fall at any moment, partly because the rope holding them up wasn’t attached to anything, it was just held very tightly by three men.

There was magic involving fire and a disappearing woman. Even the clowns were impressive, which feels statistically improbable.

It was exciting and endearing and alive.

I realised I’d had very low expectations. I’d been ‘realistic’ about what the circus would be like.

But once it started, those expectations fell away and I wasn’t busy deciding what I thought of it and what I’d say about it later.

I just sat there and paid attention.

Low expectations are useful for some things, like navigating bureaucracy or travelling on an airline or calling your bank’s customer service line for pretty much anything.

But they’re terrible for art, for joy, and for the trapeze.

Part of what made the circus work was that I never quite knew what was going to happen next. I spent most of the time convinced something might go wrong, which turned out to be part of the pleasure.

Writing asks for the same willingness to sit in uncertainty. You don’t really know whether the work will work, whether it will land, whether anyone will get it, or even see it.

Low expectations don’t reduce that uncertainty, they just let you feel like you’re managing it. You’re still oriented toward an outcome but now you’ve arranged things so it won’t feel quite as bad if it doesn’t go your way.

The trouble is that it’s hard to make something great while also pretending you don’t care.

Happy writing,

Katherine