When people ask me if I am a perfectionist, I feel insulted. I scoff, roll my eyes and say “Have you seen how messy my room is?!”, like somehow my relationship with perfectionism is dependent on whether I pick my clothes up off the floor at the end of the day. Even as months passed by, and I continued to stare at a blinking cursor on a white computer screen, I refused to acknowledge my fixation on perfection. Through endless first drafts followed by the inevitable trash bin, I stood firm and deluded myself into thinking I was content with the possibility of failure.
I really do love to write. It’s my passion, not because people tell me it is, but because I genuinely enjoy getting my thoughts on paper. I love the relief and joy that writing always brings me and having a space to share that with others. However, my relationship with perfectionism is messy when it comes to my writing. You see, all do respect to the editing process, but I’d rather skip it. I’d rather write a beautiful, perfect piece in one sitting and be done with it. I want my words to flow, hit home and move people from the first time it comes out of my crazy ol’ brain, onto paper. If not, then I must not be in my “zone”, or my “flow”. So maybe I’ll pack up and try again tomorrow…
Except, tomorrow turns into the next day and the next day and the next day, until I’m so far down the road that I can’t even see the real issue. If all I can see is the writer’s block, then it becomes an attack on my identity instead of a warning signal for a bigger problem. It’s easier to believe that I was never that good anyways, than face an issue that has left it’s fingerprints over my entire life.
My fear of failure has held me back from stepping out in faith and taking risks. I’ve trumped knowledge over truth and set a bar of expectation that only allows me to learn from watching, instead of experience. I have been trying so hard to obtain all the information, before trusting that I am capable or worthy, when in reality, trying and risking failure is my only option.
Have you guys ever read a first draft of a popular novel? Honestly, they kind of stink. They are wordy, and awkward and almost unrecognizable to the final copy. However, how would the author have ever known this if they never let their first draft see the light of day? How would they see their flaws, blind spots and errors if they never allowed an editor into the process? How can we see things for what they really are without different sets of eyes and perspectives?
Walking in the wholeness of who you are begins when you finally are courageous enough to let people see your first drafts. There’s freedom in the knowledge that some people are farther along a path than you are, and have the wisdom to share; we have to choose to stop impressing people, and open ourselves to learning from them.
When we walk out in courage and do our best at something, it reminds the world that it is okay to be a messy human being. There’s connection that happens when you come as you are, and give whatever you’ve got. That’s why vulnerability breeds connection. Courage and vulnerability says “me too”. It is the bright red exit sign to the game of perfection that everyone is trying to win.
I’m slowly learning the beauty of the revision process. I’m learning the relief of word vomiting on a piece of paper, then picking it apart to find the point I’m trying to make. I am learning to step out in faith, let myself fail, and be honored and humbled by the feedback I receive from others. Whether you think my writing is beautiful and eloquent or absolutely awful, I still love it and I’m finally releasing my grip around what others might say. I am not choosing right or wrong, but that fuzzy, weird grey area that screams of risk and possible failures. I’m choosing risk, I’m choosing uncertainty, but I also choosing God, and life as in it’s fullness.
