by Gale Leach

Months ago, Ellen Buikema invited me to submit a post for Writers in the Storm. Honored, I agreed and began thinking about a suitable topic. Because I lack a history with this group, each time an idea surfaced, I’d search the WITS website and find it—posts on this site are very comprehensive—leaving me hunting for something else. Later, I reneged on my commitment. Ellen said she’d ask again.

The second time I fell short after committing to a blog post on WITS, I felt terrible, but I still hadn’t found a subject that hadn’t been covered. Also, this would be my first article, so I needed it to be good, to be worthy. As a newbie to the group, I felt somewhat intimidated. What made Ellen think I had valuable information to share, anyway?

Time went by, and she asked again. Feeling the trepidation of stepping into the limelight, I vowed once more to do it. I had a lot going on, but I knew the reason I hadn’t produced an article was something else. In the past, I’d always been reliable and could be counted on to come through on time with something extra.

What was wrong now?

1. Fear of the blank page? No. Give me a cursor, and I can write volumes.
2. Fear of failure? Possibly. My New England-ish upbringing’s strong work ethic drives me to be the best at whatever I do. When I fall short, I shame myself. 
3. The need to succeed/be respected? Also possibly. See #2, above.

Several approaches later, I settled on sharing what I’ve done while trying to conquer my problem—what stood in the way of producing this article. I believed others must share this issue, so solving it should be helpful.

After some self-psychoanalysis, I realized I have the same problem with other things I say I want to do but don’t: playing piano and hammered dulcimer, writing a new book, singing. I could go on. It’s a long list.

Yearning for Acclaim

For each of these pursuits, I discovered that I have in mind a target or goal that includes some element of acclaim. When I was young, I wanted to write the “great American novel”—a plain American novel wouldn’t do. I yearned to sing on stage to roaring applause and standing-room-only ovations—yet each time I sat to practice, my musicianship didn’t meet my expectations. I couldn’t get past not being perfect.

Then I thought back to a time when I once queried others in my writing critique group about why they wrote. A recent post on WITS by Jenny Hansen also examined this topic, and, like that post, the answers I received varied from “because I must” to “I want to headline the New York Times bestseller list.” My reasons fell between those camps: I’ve always needed to tell a story, and I wanted readers to love what I wrote. 

Sneaking Up on Myself

Yet I couldn’t embrace the notion that my early drafts, like musical practice, are not designed to be perfect but rather a means to that end. Ernest Hemingway wrote, “The first draft of anything is shit”—a reminder that writing is a process, not perfection—but I couldn’t embrace the notion that creating bad drafts was okay. Nevertheless, I began writing and continued reading.

(Let me note that sneaking up on myself has gotten me this far. Many sources say free writing loosens creativity, but it may have more to do with loosening the joints, preparing and following the ritual, so that muscle memory can take over and ideas begin to flow. In any case, I believe this blog post is shaping up.)

Caught in Our Own Headlights

In her wonderful book Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott says “Perfection … will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the chief obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of other people … are going to do a better job than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.”

Many of us seem to be caught in our own headlights. As a younger person, I had faith in my capacity to accomplish almost anything with determination and effort, and others had recognized my innate abilities. The concept of settling for less than my best was unfamiliar to me, as I’d been taught to strive for excellence. When could I be sure my work was good enough?

Cosmic Insignificance

As I struggled with this post, a newsletter arrived in my inbox. Oliver Burkeman describes his twice-monthly email, “The Imperfectionist,” as being about “productivity, mortality, the power of limits, and building a meaningful life in an age of bewilderment.”

His book, 4,000 Weeks, is also worth every penny and every moment. I highly recommend his work if you struggle with perfectionism, or if you yearn to be more present in the moment.

This particular newsletter was titled “No big deal: why your cosmic insignificance is a wonderful thing,” and it describes several principles that converged to liberate my thinking:

We matter little in the cosmic scheme. [This realization] is really relaxing, because it's a reminder that … nothing I do or fail to do matters much at all—a realisation with its roots in Stoic philosophy, and other wisdom traditions.

Later in the newsletter, he says:

The (conscious or subconscious) belief that what you do is incredibly consequential has the effect of making the stakes too high to enjoy life … To be reminded of your cosmic insignificance therefore isn’t just relaxing, but actively empowering … It recalibrates the yardstick with which you measure what’s important from your perspective.

Recalibrating Our Yardsticks

I believe Burkeman and Lamott are right, and others have written similarly. Voltaire quoted an Italian sage: “le mieux est l’ennemi du bien” (the best is the enemy of the good) Questions sur l'Encyclopédie [fr], 1770: "Il meglio è l'inimico del bene".^[1] The quote subsequently appeared in his moral poem, La Bégueule. And Winston Churchill said, “Perfection is the enemy of progress.” Widely attributed to Churchill, source unknown.

My reading and now my personal experience say that letting go of the need to be perfect—recalibrating your yardstick—will liberate your writing process. Since none of us can achieve perfection—at least, not in this lifetime—accept that your writing will improve with practice and with editing. Embrace imperfection, and just keep writing.

(Thank you, Ellen, for your gentle nudges that helped me cross this hurdle. This blog post isn’t perfect, but it’s done!)

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About Gale

Writing The Art of Pickleball in 2005 launched Gale Leach’s career as an award-winning author. From 2011 to 2020, she also created her own company, Two Cats Press, which published the works of six Arizona authors, including seven of her own fantasy adventure novels for children and teens. Currently, she’s at work on a fantasy series that involves technology and magic, multiple worlds, and creatures you only thought were mythological.

Gale and her husband recently relocated to Texas, accompanied by a rescue dog, two rescue kittens, and a bearded dragon. Her interests outside of writing include singing, playing music, genealogy, reading, crafting, and many types of puzzles and games.

You can connect with Gale on social media or her website.

Author headshot by Kenneth Johnson of Kenneth Johnson Photography, Surprise, AZ

Top Image: Gemini_Generated_Image_xplacxplacxplacx.jpeg (using prompt: “Image of bright car headlights coming straight toward you on a foggy road”) subsequently modified using Adobe Photoshop Elements 2022.