Confession: I started this post when I was in England fourteen weeks ago while on retreat. I remember sitting in the dining room and sharing with the lovely Lucie about how I longed to be brave enough to be consistent with my Substack. As always, she was encouraging and offered refreshing honesty on how difficult it can be to be a writer. At the time, it was easy to have a conversation about vulnerability and courage in the comfort of a gorgeous art deco house overlooking the North Sea. I knew all too well that real life fear would hit the second I sat on the plane home. And it did, just as I thought it would.
It makes me sad and a bit embarrassed to admit that I began this year filled with anxiety and fear about writing. I’m not sure if it was because I was wrapping up my MFA and therefore surrendering all claims to being “in process,” or because I was slowly learning to call myself a writer. Doing so meant that I had to show some evidence for it; some proof that it was a worthwhile decision by showing my publications and other signs of “success.” In my mind, this was how I was to justify my degree and my art to others that didn’t understand why I would make such a pivot in the first place. But as always, that was the perfectionism talking. I was caring more about how I was being perceived by nonwriting friends and family than how I was perceiving myself.
Writing requires vulnerability and acceptance of the bad that comes along with the good. The good, of course, is the praise. The bad is the judgement, the confusion, and the indifference. I don’t know which is worse, but this is a battle that every writer knows all too well. And if we are not careful, the fear we feel can creep in and paralyze us because the art we make isn’t perfect. But that’s the thing- perfectionism has no place in art. I’ve realized that my desire for perfection has merely been avoidance of the discomfort that comes with writing. And to be frank, whatever discomfort I was experiencing (that came in the shape of comments and opinions) was perfectly manageable.
Growth requires discomfort.
Becoming better at anything requires us to embrace the pain of growth or else we will experience the pain of remaining as we are. Becoming better requires us to defeat the voice in our mind that urges us to chase comfort; the one that tells us to self-preserve by playing it safe and not making the art. But I would rather show up imperfectly than not at all.
"I don’t know which is worse, but this is a battle that every writer knows all too well." Such a perfect piece for this space, Lizzy.