Perfectionism’s Various Costume Changes
I don’t think I’m a perfectionist. Just look at the room I’m writing from — my aunt’s home office. It’s littered by a smattering of my books, my aunt’s books, accounting files dating back to 1989, various accordion folders, binders full of church accounting documents, picture frames sitting lined along the baseboards, manila envelopes, empty 3 ring binders, pictures of my aunt’s friends, old calendars hung up on the wall, at least two electric pencil sharpeners and as many staplers, dried flowers, a pool of used ink cartridges, luggage waiting for a vacation and a 32-inch cardboard box that houses my monitor. There’s also a closet, but I’m afraid to look in it.
I feel like I’m in a fucking episode of Hoarders. I sold most everything I own when I left SF, but the compromise of living in my aunt’s house is living with her stuff.
So I stop myself from writing because the artist in me is screaming, “I cannot write in these conditions!”
Perfectionism known by it’s other name: self-sabotage.
So I’m writing every day, in the mess, in the muggy heat of Michigan in August where my underwear is sticking to my ass, my bra feels like a second skin and I’ve given up wearing makeup, because what’s the point. But a messy room and a humidex that’s channeling the Amazonian rainforest simply aren’t good enough reasons to stop writing.
Writers talk a lot about discipline.
I’m not all that great at it.
I’m working on a book now — it’s about my life post-divorce. Being single at 27 with no clue who you are, what you like or how to date. My goal with the book is to help alleviate the stigma around divorce (especially at such a young age), make you laugh as you read the follies and foibles of my dating life and help women understand there is no shame in exploring and experimenting on the path to knowing yourself.
It’s one of the toughest things I’ve written.
Mary Karr talks about how writing a memoir is akin to punching yourself in the face — repeately. And if you could see the bruises, you’d know I’ve been in a knock down, drag out fight with myself to access my feelings, memories and try to write something that is true. Not what I want it to be, but what is. I feel myself wanting to shape the story in a certain way, setting myself up as the fearless heroine, but I then I stop.
“Laura, is that really how it was?”
“Ugh. Ok, not exactly.”
This process of self-excavation has been so tough, that I’m nearly paralyzed looking at the page. This blog post is more words on the page then I’ve written for the book in a week. And I have a publisher interested, but I just can’t seem to put anything on paper. I haven’t told my writing group about this problem — I need to maintain my image as the “strong, with it” one. But inside, I’m kindof crumbling.
I finally realized I have a huge fear of publishing anything that shows me in a less than positive light. I don’t want to show you the vulnerability, uncertainty and fear. I don’t want you to see my crying, alone and unsure, I only want you to see the self-assured image I craft for myself as a successful writer, marketer and entrepreneur.
Perfectionism masquerading as personal branding.
But I know, I know, that the best writing begins only when we pull down the mask.
So of course I’m stuck. I can’t write a memoir like this, trying to arrange pieces of a story like I’m some kind of puppetmaster. In addition to getting more disciplined, this challenge to post every day is a challenge to be real. To stop editing myself and just let it out. To stop being afraid of what people will think of me and know that I’m just a human being, warts and all.
I’m not going to be spending inordinate amounts of time on editing these posts or teaching readers some lesson (“The 25 things you need to do before 6am or your day is ruined” — kill me now). I’m just going to write, and talk about my process and see where this all ends up. I think writers become overly concerned with what they’re writing means, how the sentences lace together and lose the pleasure of writing in the process.
Perfectionism dressing up as “just being a good writer.”
Fuck that.
My hope is that by sharing all this, it will bring us together as writers. My fear is that nobody reads this. But if you do, maybe we can hang on to one another, and sail this raft to shore. I keep reminding myself that as solitary as writing is, we are never, truly alone.
