Moose in the Kitchen

I’m one of the most uptight perfectionists I know. Since my address book is choking on people who grimace at improper verb tenses and delight in list-making, this is a damn impressive accomplishment. My social circle is a bastion for the chronically uptight and I am their queen.

[Friends now reading and thinking, "I am most certainly NOT an uptight perfectionist and how dare you tar me with your neurotic brush?"; relax. I'm making a point here.]

When I reached the chapter labelled “Perfectionism” in Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott’s book on writing, my buoyant heart sunk ever so slightly toward my small intestine. I wanted the chapter to tell me that perfectionism is indeed the only true path to warm, finely-cut prose.

Needless to say, it told me no such thing.

Instead it noted that perfectionism “will keep you cramped and insane your whole life” and told me to go make a mess. I don’t really like messes. I make them. I leave them where they are for days and days (read: weeks and weeks) until the other person who lives in the house tells me, “No, you really need to do some dishes now, and maybe burn that moldy coffee cup that’s been sitting on your desk since July.” I make messes, I just don’t like them.

Making a mess with words seems like wasted effort. If I don’t have anything to say at the moment, I stand up and go do something else. By “go do something else” I mean “plop in a DVD and eat some cheese.” But still. If I stare at a blank screen for longer than 26 seconds, that’s approximately 23 seconds too long. Writing three pages to get one useable sentence makes sense to one truly devoted to their craft. Clearly the only craft to which I am devoted is molding my butt into the precise shape of my couch cushions. Because if I want to waste an hour and a half, I want to waste it watching Legally Blonde while coaxing the dog to fetch me things. Things like cheese.

Existential quandary of “write (even if the product makes me curl up like a humiliated pillbug) or just watch TV” aside, I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life as an uptight perfectionist. Frankly, it’s not much fun and you spend valuable time being paralyzed by the thought of making a mistake. When the only mistake you’re actually making is not doing something because you’re afraid.

Like my vicious cycles? My vicious cycles and are old friends. We have tea and cuddle.

Family legend tells of a Christmas Eve when the dimly-lit peace of an evergreen strewn courtyard was viciously destroyed by a three-year-old screaming her ever-loving head off. (Yes, the screaming toddler was me.) Why? My legs weren’t being chewed off by wild dingos. My knowledge of Santa Claus hadn’t been impugned. (I didn’t care if he was a right jolly old elf, my dad, or a large furry kiwi, so long as he brought me presents.) I was screaming because my socks were wrinkled.

I’ll let that wrinkled sock statement sink in for a moment.

If that’s not a splendid example of an uptight perfectionist in the making, I don’t know what is. Rubber bands were placed around my ankles (under the lace ruffle, to avoid offending my delicate sense of aesthetics), but it. simply. wasn’t. good enough. My limited world view did not include wrinkled socks and the introduction did not please me.

Focus groups assembled to address this question all agree that I should work at vanquishing the rampant perfectionism before I die, having done nothing but fret about socks. If my tombstone reads: She worried about socks; I want you all to dig me up and pummel me. (Gently. To do so otherwise might be…gross.)

Perfectionism will strangle you, with only the best of intentions. Like alcoholics, perfectionists rationalize their actions. “If I do it, I should do it right.” Yet, the very state of being human means perfection is doomed before you even take your morning shower. See that dead bug stuck on the tile? If you’re a perfectionist, Martha Stewart whaps you with her glue gun. If you’re not, you think, “Hey. Dead bug.” Either way, there’s still a dead bug. You either worry about it or you don’t. (Or you just clean it up, but that’s too practical for my purposes.) You can only do your best, with the tools you have at hand. Sometimes your best involves poking at your computer with a fork in hopes that the fork will produce something readable while you try to remember your last name. So you poke away, refusing to fret about the fact that you won’t produce genius while hopped up on Nyquil. Soothe yourself with thoughts of revising the Nyquil ravings at a later date.

When you expect every sentence to be utter, award-winning perfection, you end up with a lot of blank paper. Perfectionism leads to many other frustrating symptoms, such as yelling, “You wretched moron!” after spilling a glass of milk. Instead of “oops.” I would never yell at another person for spilling a glass of milk, why would I yell at myself? But I’m taking it slowly and starting with my writing. I’ll leave the moron with the milk for another day. You can’t change the habits of a life time in a blog post.

I’ve written little more than this blog because I fear that if I take on a larger (by larger, I mean “more coherent”) task, it will be bad. Possibly even enter the dreaded realm of Literary Sucking. While fearing the Literary Suck, I have done absolutely nothing. Way to reach for the stars, champ. If I want to write, I need to write. Make an utter mess with my words, in hopes that subsequent drafts will render them readable, later palatable. And someday, in a galaxy far far away, good.

So please excuse me while I go make a mess. Even if it cuts into valuable DVD-watching and cheese-eating time.

Related posts:

1. The Barrel Has Been Scraped
2. You Probably Don’t Want to Come for Dinner, Do You?
3. I Like My OCD with a Side of ADD
4. Crumbling Under the Weight of My Awesome Organizational Powers
5. I Have a Box