Sometimes I forget.
When I was a kid, I used to freak out when things went wrong. Seriously freak out. Tears, uncontrolled shaking, heaving. Full-blown panic attack. My inability to draw could turn any science project into a scene from Medea.
Even now, my freak-out tendency can pop up at unexpected times. A tortellini tragedy years ago nearly had me canceling a perfectly good Thanksgiving. I couldn’t stop apologizing for a dish that others praised but that had, in my mind, failed because it wasn’t what I had planned. I was so wrapped up in the imperfectness of the individual components that I couldn’t appreciate the whole.
No matter how many times you’ve screwed up over the years, perfectionist tendencies are hard to squelch.
As I mentioned the other day, I’m a better editor than I am writer: I need to write at least 50% more words than a finished product will ever need. First drafts are for spewing; subsequent drafts are where writing occurs. That’s just the way I work.
But sometimes I edit too much. In my search for the perfect word, I end up with half a dozen options and the powerlessness to choose between them. In my honing of the perfectly crafted sentence, I end up dulling or sanitizing what personality or strength the original idea may have had. I end up editing out the point.
Sometimes I forget that part of what makes something unique or interesting or memorable is its flaws. A false start. A missed cue. A misplaced brush stroke. A crooked smile. A dropped beat. “All things counter, original, spare, strange, / Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) / With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim”: those are the things that affect people. A reader doesn’t care about the original intents or ingredients; he doesn’t care about perfection. He cares about the results. He cares about how it feels. He cares about how it makes him feel.
Technique isn’t the end; form and content are the means for the narrative, not the other way around. Copy should be flawless, but a story should be indelible. It should have resonance. A story should have scars. It’s not about the perfect word or perfect sentence. It’s about the thrust behind them. It’s about capturing a truth. It’s about throwing yourself into the void.
It’s about feel.
Sometimes I forget.
Then something reminds me:
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7/27/09 - Edit: Drat. The original video was pulled. Sorry about that. If I can find a kosher replacement link, I’ll include it. The video was of a performance on So You Think You Can Dance, a breast cancer tribute choreographed to “This Woman’s Work.” The piece’s power lay in its emphasis on emotion and reality rather than on perfect footwork. If you can find it, I recommend watching it.
12/27/09 – Just stumbled across a new video link and have embedded it above. As worth watching now as it was then.
