There’s a saying on my wall that goes like this:
If you can’t learn to do something well, learn to enjoy doing it poorly.
I love it.
If I’m honest with myself, I do everything poorly.
For most of my life, I wouldn’t go near things that interested me because I was sure I wouldn’t do them well.
I was a perfectionist.
But over the years I learned that perfectionism paralyzed me.
I had no fun.
I was a grouch.
So I took the plunge.
For example, cooking. I didn’t know how to boil water. That kept me away from a lot of recipes I wanted to make.
Now I boil water like a pro. Big bubbles, medium bubbles, and small bubbles.
The rest of the recipe, ask me another time.
Take painting. All my life I was told that to be a good painter, you had to learn to draw.
Drawing bores me. Too much attention spent on details. I don’t have the patience.
So I mess with watercolors on the best paper I can afford to buy. The paper produces some really good stuff, and I take the credit.
Writing. The ability to write a novel alludes me. I’ve tried so many times, only to get stuck in the middle with no way out of the maze I’ve created.
But I’m terrific at beginnings. Great characters. Lots of action. Compelling hook.
Anybody out there need an epic first chapter? Talk to me.
The truth is, I live with failure every day, but I don’t let it stop me anymore.
It scares me. I’ll admit that, but I’ve gotten used to being frightened.
I tell myself somewhere in all this mess, there’s a gem in there.
Most likely it will take somebody else to spot it.