Perfectionism kills what might otherwise be a fairly decent time

As I lay next to my son this morning, trying to ease him into a nap, I wrestled again with the thought that I haven't written lately. Being sick for the past two weeks, I've had this thought about a thousand times as I shuffle around the house in my slippers getting tea and changing diapers. My brain of course seizes on this short-term reality and instead of comforting me with "You're sick, plus it's winter, just go with it," it taunts me with, "Well, that's it, no more writing in you, Loser. Thought you were so special for creating a blog and now look at you, just a couple of weeks into it and you're totally stalled out." It's relentless. Needless to say, I have been feeling increasingly worthless and morose.

This is why I don't like being sick. The physical symptoms are usually bearable. It's the fact that when my body needs to rest, my mind can get contemptuous. As a result, I don't get sick all that often, and rarely for this long. My sister called the other day after reading one of my last posts and wanted to see if I was feeling better. I told her, "I don't really do anything." She replied, "That's okay, I do a lot, and none of it means anything." We laughed. She was feeling equally emotionally stricken, and I instantly felt better. If there was some external thing out there oppressing us all, it couldn't just be that I am a total failure, right?

So, back to bed this morning. I was listening to the stream in my head that I'd heard many times already in the past several days: "I wonder if I'll ever have another good idea to write about. Why haven't I been able to write? Is the only good writing I ever do about conflict and negativity? If I give up sarcasm for Lent will I have anything at all left to say? Real writers wouldn't go through this..." Then another thought came to mind, so abruptly that I lifted my head. "You're worried about writing something complete, a neat brown package of a piece. You're feeling pressure to make it good, whatever it is. Write about that." Everything was moving again then. Noah went to sleep, and I almost ran to my computer. I wanted desperately to write something clever, and I knew I could do it. Maybe I would end the last paragraph in the middle of a sentence, to emphasize that things don't always have to be perfect, tied with a bow, and that I was okay with this. Maybe, maybe, I felt the possibilities...But ten minutes into it, Noah woke up. I had barely gotten online because my dial-up is so freaking slow, and the tide turned again.

For a moment I was frustrated because I needed to write, to be a writer again, but it dissipated quickly. This was still a much better place to be - ready to write, but needing to tend to my dear babe. This position was a million times better than me with time on my hands but nary an insight in sight.

So we went through the next many hours of our day, welcoming two consecutive visitors at the house, Noah doing great even though he was cranky and needed sleep. Finally a half hour ago he let go to the quiet of the afternoon, and I was able to come back to the computer with less urgency and more curiosity as to what might happen next. And lookie here, I got out of the way enough that a post has worked itself out. As will my cold, and hopefully this drive I have to always be pushing forward in a straight line.

A mentor of mine once said, "Don't let the perfect get in the way of the good." I need to be even more forgiving with myself - the perfect needs to stand aside for the hideous, because at least then I'd keep writing, and it's the process of writing that keeps me alive, not the stack of finished copy. Another person said, and I wish I could remember who, "You have to write a lot of sad clown poems." Perhaps if I'd written more of those poems in the past two weeks, I'd have a masterpiece today. But starting again right now is what I have, and hopefully will have again, the next time I think it's really over for good.