A couple years back, I was browsing the Halloween seasonal section at Walmart when I stumbled upon a few palettes of face glitter. I thought it was pretty. I bought it on impulse, and a liquid eyeliner, too.
I'm not really one for makeup. Sure, I followed all the big ones during the youtuber makeup vlogger phase, but I hadn't actually tried to put makeup on my face since I was a kid in theater trying to keep my pale face from getting washed out in the stage lights. So I didn't exactly know how to
use what I had bought. But I knew I wanted to try.
I started practicing with "shower makeup"-- the makeup you do right before a shower just to try out something new, since you'll wash it right off when you're done. I was... not good at it. This was after I had developed my disability, so just standing for that long and getting close enough to the mirror to see without my glasses was a challenge. Then you add in liquid eyeliner when I already can't draw a straight line and I was not really set up for success.
But I kept trying, and eventually I got to a place where I was good enough that I could say "fuck it." Like, it wasn't awful, but it was definitely not perfect or "good" (my eyeliner was sisters not twins and the glitter was already a bold choice). It was enough that I was having fun with it and felt confident enough to tell off a stranger if they tried to give me beauty tips.
But, to my surprise, people loved it! I would go out with what I considered sub-par (to even my low standards) eyeliner and bright red glitter and people would compliment it. Not just friends, either, but acquaintances in my classes and strangers who were taking my order or chatting with me in passing.
Lesson learned: do things shitty. Sometimes, peoples' opinions will surprise you. What if I had let my perfectionism hold me back? I wouldn't have gotten to wear fun makeup, and I wouldn't have had a brighter day from those compliments.
Writing is the exact same way. So are a lot of other creative pursuits. You're not going to have fun if you don't do it, and doing it means accepting the flaws sometimes (all the time). I
didn't have fun with my writing for a long time because I was hung up on my own standards (and the standards of others that had wormed their way into my mind).
On the day I started typing up this rambling, a friend of mine referred to me as "dangerously detail oriented" (which, frankly, should be a skill on my resume). While this can be a good thing-- and he meant it in a good way-- I think that the "danger" is sometimes more directed at myself. It's far too easy to get hung up on small details and let them lead me astray from my goals or prevent me from enjoying what I
have accomplished.
I've written previously in
a writing advice post on Anne Lamott's quote about silencing the "mice"-- the critical voices of others inside your head. Here's my list of other strategies for handling my perfectionism:
- The "30 miles per hour" rule. This is one I learned from my mother, who does quilting. The rule is as follows: if you couldn't see what's wrong when driving past the work at 30 miles per hour, it's not an issue. I think that sometimes when we're making things, we get caught up in the details and how it "should" be. This rule helps you take a step back and analyze if this is just an issue for your or something that others would actually notice.
- Focus on the good parts. Finding the things you like can help the project seem more salvageable, especially for projects that are editable. This isn't writing that should be scrapped, it's just a diamond in the rough.
- "It's a feature; not a bug." This is a mantra from the programming community that I have decided to apply with reckless abandon. Seriously, though: Sometimes you can take a step back from a flaw and reframe it as a style choice. This stamp isn't poorly transferred, it's a rustic aesthetic. This narrative isn't repetitive, it's cyclical. Try to reframe it before you throw it out.
- The imperfections are a sign that you're a living, breathing human instead of a machine. Your work is allowed to be flawed, because you're human.
- There's a superstition in fiber arts communities (I'm unclear on the origin, I've heard several versions) that you're supposed to put an imperfection in your work. The reasons vary, from faeries "getting" you to losing a piece of your soul in a perfect work to the hubris of imitating God. One version is the story of Arachne, who was punished by Athena for her weaving being too perfect. No matter the origin, the general consensus seems to be that it's good to have an imperfection in your work.
- If you hate it now, you can always redo it later. That's why editing exists for writing-- a first draft is always going to be less than perfect, because you have to have somewhere to go with it. And for the things you can't edit, take up the iterative model: do it again with fixes.
- You will get better at it with time. So even if this one isn't perfect, you're learning skills that will make the next thing better.
- I was watching a glass flameworking demo recently, and the woman presenting was talking about how she knows how much glass to add to a piece for something. She explained that she estimates based on her experience, and that she's spent a long time doing what she does and improving at it. But she also said that it's about "knowing when to stop." You can't keep working on it forever, so you have to know when a piece is acceptable. This ties back to the 30 mph rule, since it's about recognizing that other people will be just as happy if you stop earlier than your higher standards would want you to.
- Life's too short to not do it because it won't be perfect, so do it shitty. You just might have fun and make something that you can be a little bit proud of.
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