The Fun Terror of Being an Amateur
Words Josh Skaggs
The man interviewing me has a preposterously Dickensian name—Irvin Bump—but honestly everything about this interview seems preposterous to me. After working for 10 years as a writer, I am applying for a part-time job at a home repair company. I am severely under-qualified. When asked to rate myself from 1 to 10 on a variety of skills (carpentry, landscaping, plumbing, etc.), I tick through the entire left-hand column with ones and twos and an occasional three.
“You are what we would call an ‘unskilled laborer,’” Irvin tells me.
I nod. That checks out.
Then he surprises me: “When can you start?”
I start the next day. In the back of my closet I find an unused tool belt—a miraculous discovery, like finding a still-fresh chicken nugget under your couch cushion—and load it up with some essentials. Tape measure, hammer, earbuds, and 80 SPF sunscreen (pale boi needs his lotion). I show up to my first day clean and ignorant; I leave covered in dirt and still ignorant, having dug fence posts until my soft hands blistered.
One might well ask: What made you take this job in the first place?
I might answer that I needed extra cash. Making a career as a freelance writer takes time; a side hustle cushions my bank account while I continue to write.
I might also answer that this job was available. A buddy of mine works with Irvin and gave a generous reference. Landing the job wasn’t hard, and I could start immediately.
But if I were to answer more honestly, I would hone in on a different motive. After a hard couple years, years of dead ends and an unfinished novel and strained friendships and exhausting arguments with God and showing up again and again to all of it, I wanted a change. I wanted to be a beginner again. I wanted to be an amateur.
So here I am, driving a pickup truck for the first time. I feel like a boy tagging along on “take your kid to work day,” and maybe that feeling is right: At the ripe age of 33 I have been given permission to be childishly curious again. Every day, everything I do is a first. First time using a cat’s paw. First time laying baseboard. First time demo-ing a kitchen. First time worrying if there will be a place at the job site for me to poop.
It feels fun—and terrifying. When was the last time I let myself be the amateur in the room?
I know why I avoided it. Becoming an amateur feels dangerous, even emasculating, especially with things like manual labor that give off a whiff of manliness. It’s easier to stick to my wheelhouse, to accept only those opportunities that display my strengths and to avoid situations that expose my shortcomings. I don’t hunt or grill or change the oil in my car because I’m not really interested in those things—but also, let’s be honest, because I’ve never done them and am afraid of looking ridiculous.
Now, as my co-worker watches me squirm beneath a loaded trash can, which I am trying to cantilever onto a truck bed by arching my back and repositioning my arms for the third time, I know that my fear is coming true: I look ridiculous.
I’m enjoying it more than I expected.
If I want to be a lifelong learner, the kind of man whose mind and body are still sharp at an old age, this is part of the process. I’m willing to risk being seen as less capable so that I can become more capable. I’m willing to be a beginner again—and again, and again—lest I wake up one day and realize I’ve forgotten how to start something new. I’m willing to pick up this tool I’ve never used before (I’m told it’s a reciprocating saw) and tear this wall down.
Print isn’t dead.
If you enjoyed this article, you’d probably love more like it in the And Sons print issue. If you don’t have one of these on your coffee table right now, you should probably go explore our back issue catalog.
