Strung out on Perfectionism (6 of 31: Tending to the Writer in Me)

 

 

What if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.  ~Anne Lamott

Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I am a recovering perfectionist.  I've even been known to brag about it. I thought it meant I was a hard worker, someone who knew details matter. 

For a long time, my obsession with perfection bled the life out of my writing.  If my photos weren't perfectly edited or if my words weren't up to snuff in my mind, they were a no go.  I'd often publish a post and then hit delete.  My words were guarded, over analyzed and people pleasing. Other times my thoughts were messy, so I wouldn't even sharpen my pencil.  All the time, I knew I had a fair share of grammar and spelling mistakes.  Polishing away the faults siphoned away my fire and creativity.

My perfectionism raged the loudest when I was a classroom teacher.  I was young, confident, and spending a zillion hours a week on my work. I arrived early, worked late, and drug carts of work home.  I obsessed over every unit and redesigned every handout that landed in front of my students.  My students' parents needed to know I was professional and capable, so I labored over my weekly newsletter making sure the font, the clipart and the text were PERFECT.   As I stood by the copy machine each week, watching 25 copies hit the complete tray, I thought myself fabulous.  Exhausted and frazzled, but meeting my self-imposed expectations.  Truth be told, I judged those around me who didn't spend equal time on their "teaching". 

Then a new teacher moved across the hall from me.  A couple years older, more fun, more relaxed and probably the better teacher, my antennas went up.  As most teachers do, she worked hard.  She loved her students and loved the art of teaching.  At some point, I caught a glimpse of one of her newsletters, and discovered that she was using a template that she wrote into by hand each week.  I'm guessing it took her about 15-20 minutes, including copying time.  It was personal, informative and totally adequate.  She was an incredible teacher, but had none of my hang-ups with precision.  I'm guessing she also actually lived a life beyond teaching too.

For the first time, I saw myself, and my wasted time, with some clarity.  Those zillion hours spent making sure every single project, worksheet, and rubric I gave my students was PERFECT actually had nothing to do with my teaching.   Gulp. 

It took many more moments of clarity to realize that my perfectionism had come at a high price.  I'd wasted time, missed out, lost my focus and stepped too far away from my truest self. 

I am writing again, and learning to accept my faults.  Writing even if time limits my ability to give my A game.  Releasing my desire to go back and change a few words again and again after I hit publish.  No longer wanting to delete old posts that were written by the former writer I was.  I acknowledge that though I'll never master the art of the written word,  I love the art anyway.  Today, more than yesterday, I'm embracing my sloppy, creative, and radically imperfect self.   

 “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”  ~Ernest Hemingway

This is day 6 of a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me".