On Writing and Perfection

Warning: This entry contains (somewhat hyperbolic) reminiscences about my offspring.

Recently I watched my son Matthew practicing martial arts. I stood amazed as with a steady gaze of almost spooky composure he executed a long series of complex movements in one fluid dance. Why was I amazed? Probably for the same reason I was stunned to behold the arc of his head just moments after his birth. Because perfection – real perfection, not the gnarly “ism” that nags you until you get it right, but the pure-flowing kind – always comes as a delightful surprise.
Why can’t we make perfection happen when we want it to? Because it’s the very serendipitous nature of things (Imagine! Once again a fresh new human being appears!) that makes us say, “Aahh, perfection.” If we could predict it, it wouldn’t be perfect.

Simply by being willing to be surprised – in the act of writing, as elsewhere in life – we throw open a doorway to the miraculous. Those superb moments of beauty and truth (Big “B”, Big “T”) that we know we couldn’t have hatched with a plan.
Yet if we’re ever to meet up with perfection – in our written work, in the martial arts, in the verdant rainforests of heart and mind – we instinctively know it’s going to mean giving up the desire to “do it well,” and giving in to speaking openly and baldly as we can about whatever matters most to us. Otherwise the Inner Critic will take hold of our writing and mash it to a pulp before its unplanned beauty ever has a chance to make its debut.

The snarly, gnarly truth
I can’t Want to write well and expect to write anything good. Years ago I gave up being “good,” on all counts. Now I write with abandon, with the intention to unveil whatever would like to be unveiled in myself and in life. I edit later, not until I reach the End of a first draft. Until that time comes, I keep on “applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair,” as Hemingway said. Writing by the light of an intention to be as truthful as possible, at some point I may glimpse perfection.

Seeing the miraculous emerge from your own words, you’ll be as amazed as anyone. When it arises, you’ll sense its fragility. You won’t dare congratulate yourself. You’ll just read over the bit again and again, appreciating its tenuous beauty. You’ll feel a surpassing love, as though you’re holding a just-born infant. Because you are, kind of. And if at that moment you have any words at all to offer, they’ll probably assemble themselves into a seriously worn cliché: “Thank you.” But my advice is, say them anyway, or write them down, even if (or especially if) you’re all by yourself.

Stay tuned for more nuggets!
Next up: Writing and Revising or . . . When Is a Do-Over Overdone?
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