I can be a perfectionist. The type of person that spends so much time sorting out the details that the finished product almost never makes it to the table, left rotting on the shelves of my minds un-utilized ideas pantry.
And I need to stop.
I’m setting a bad example. There is nothing courageous about needing perfection. Perfection, for me, is simply the process of letting insecurities run the show, allowing that voice that says it’s not good enough to be in charge, and perpetuating the idea that we, I, or they are perfect.
Artists create a lot of garbage. The brave ones publish it.
Producing writing that does not wait to be polished. Like people, continually developing and walking around scars and all, honest art. When I hide the scars, I revoke the permission for others to own their own imperfections.
My new ideas will suck. My first try will suck. My next attempt will suck. The direction of my current plan is wrong. I will be rejected, told no, laughed at, criticized, and questioned.
But, if I want to do something new. If my true “resolve” is in creating something that was not there before, try something else, pursue something better, then I have to kick the training wheels off the bike and brave the potential road rash that will come from falling on my face.
I resolve to suck. Because we have enough people being perfect. Enough people who know the right way. Enough people hiding their not enough-ness in a storage closet locked by ego.
And it’s time to clean out the pantry.
