I took an improv class last winter, which is something I'd hankered to do for a very long time. And like a lot of things that one really wants, it also scared the shit out of me. If I have to think about why that’s so, there’s the fact that performing would mean I would be putting myself front and center, in essence saying “Look at me!” If you’re going to do that, you’ve got to own up to the fact that you take a certain amount of pleasure in getting and holding people’s attention. (Do nice people do that?) That and that whatever’s coming out of your mouth is worth listening to, even if it’s not thought out or clever. More on improv class another day, because now I want to write about...perfectionism.
Perfectionism - that son of a sea cook. A sentence that has long stayed with me comes from the book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life written by Anne Lamott. “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor,” she writes about pushing through the fear of putting first words down on a blank piece of paper. Perfection can be a fine incentive, but - and I say this from personal experience - it can also be crippling if it prevents you taking a stab at things. And whose standard of perfection - whose voice - are we talking about, anyway? Your own? A parent’s? Spouse’s? Sibling’s? I’m going to let Anne Lamott tell it:
“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.”
And a few pages later...”So go ahead and make big scrawls and mistakes. Use up lots of paper. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friend. What some people (inadvertently, I’m sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here - and by extension, what we’re supposed to be writing.”
The title of Lamott’s book stems from a time when she was a kid. Her brother had put off starting a school assignment on birds until the night before it was due. He sat head in hands, feeling the way you feel when you’re in grade school and you know you’re in serious trouble. He told his Dad that he didn’t know where to start and by way of advice his Dad replied, “Take it bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” I LOVE that. I love the kindness, and the clarity and the effectiveness of the response. It’s OK. Just. start. it.
I think accepting that you have made and will continue to make mistakes, that you are human, a slob, a messy, brilliant and ongoing piece of work, an example of unique wackitude - imperfect, but still worthy of love and respect - is the Holy Grail. You fail a lot, you get back up, tenderly. True in both the creative process and life in general. I don’t think you ever quite get there altogether, but there are moments that you recognize as being very good indeed.
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