Travel seems to afford people with alot of time for navel-gazing. I am no different. In fact, when I left Bangkok, Thailand for Yangon, Myanmar (or Rangoon, Burma, dependent on whether you recognise the name changes), I actually made a point of leaving my laptop behind, and trying to pack as few distractions as possible so that I could engage in both some good and intense gazing into my navel, as well as remove anything I could put between myself and the locals – to draw them in and me out, so to speak.

My first realisation was garnered from the fact that, amongst the limited gear I packed for the 2-3 week journey, was a notebook. This notebook was one which I had bought in Luang Prabang, Laos intending to write my travel journal in it. Of course, I was distracted, and never got around to it, managing, at best, a couple of pages whilst I was travelling through China by train, and after having had an unusual experience of sharing tea with a carriage full of train staff (most of whom could not speak a word of English). In looking at this book, I also recalled that I had bought similar books, both before I left home and during my journey, with the same or similar purposes. I have even become something of a stationery addict – trying to search out a specific pen I prefer whenever the ones I have run out, go missing, or are gifted to other travellers who forget that a pen is one of the most important tools you need (aside from your passport and a valid visa, if needed) when negotiating borders and customs.

Why all these empty books?

Cutting through all the bullshit and excuses, I realised that these books represent a fear of failure. I want to start writing things, and sharing my thoughts and experiences, but I am scared that, in trying to do so, I will fail. I worry that I will write too much, inanely rambling when the point has been made and made again, and the reader gets bored to tears. I worry that I may write too little, making no more sense than the snippets of English I sometimes hear scattered through foreign pop songs. I worry I may not be able to keep my momentum. I worry I may keep my momentum too well, and then people will expect more of me.

Sometimes, a fear of failure is also a fear of success. As I aluded to with that last one – if I start writing well, then I have set an expectation and I have to keep working at, or above, that level otherwise I will disappoint people.

So – Realisation of Self, Number 237: I am a scaredy-cat. I worry too much. I need to just leave fate to do it’s thing, and commit to just doing something.

As my mad Thai guide said, just before coaxing me to slide off a rock into a puddle of water (I call it a puddle as it was not really big enough to call “a pool”) – “Don’t try, don’t know.” Whilst I may have been risking spinal injury in trusting that sentiment in that exact circumstances, I think the essence of it carries well here.

So, since I landed in Myanmar, I have been writing… And writing… And writing…

And what has happened? Well, it seems to have developed into a (good) habit, and in recalling experiences to write them down, I am feeling more and more like I am seeing/doing/experiencing more and more. I am not sure, but I also think that more and more things are happening to and around me, which I am remembering and trying to capture when I finally settle down on my lumpy US$4 a night bed and get out the notebook and pen.

I have been writing so much, that even with my minimalistic scrawling handwriting (normally reserved for notes to myself), I have filled my Luang Prabang book up, and have had to start in a 400 page exercise book I overpaid for in Nyuangshwe, Myanmar.

So, if the advice I can give for anyone who is afraid of failing, or even more, afraid to succeed, it would be those words from my Thai guide – “Never try: never know” – just give something a go. The only sure way to fail is never to attempt, so give yourself a chance, and jump on in.

But, if jumping in involves rocks and water, be a smart boy or girl and check the water’s depth first.