Blog Dis
Damnitalltohell...
2026-03-26
Perfection is an illusion. Perfection is a subjective aim and a conclusion when viewed from the perspective of each individual. The aim of our intention, our ideal, will surely become altered, in the chase toward perfection.
I don't like it when the sands underneath my feet continually shift, daily, hourly, or even by the second. I know in my heart that to strive for perfection is analogous to setting yourself up for ultimate defeat, disappointment and fear, doled out at the hands of reality and maybe too a little self-loathing needs to be sprinkled in for allowing oneself yet again to fall into the trap of striving to achieve perfection.
Yet, we like the notion of perfection. I'm of the mind now that wanting to achieve perfection is a direct reflection of how we feel about ourselves. If we're feeling grand, confident and full of pee and vinegar, then perfection feels like an easy reach. Conversely, when we're feeling low in energy, overly tired, and maybe even a little depressed, then the idea of striving to achieve perfection feels like a dead weight around our necks, a total waste of time, and an unnecessary burden.
Isn't it enough that you push yourself to be supposedly perfect, without someone else telling you that you can do better, to be more perfect, or that they feel entitled to judge your progress? Yes! It is enough, even when its a hypothetical discussion on the nature of perfection.
When I write a new novel, and make slow progress, I am very much aware that this is due to my sense of wanting to craft the perfect sentence, to be followed by the perfect paragraph, a full page of beautiful prose that will spill over into the next chapter, and therefore the next and next, until such time as I've completed the perfect first draft, flaws and all. Ha! This rarely, if ever, is the case. Each page is a laborious process of me fighting with myself to write the best sentence, to the best of my ability, without being the very reason why I'm holding myself back. My critical eye is never satisfied. Something as simple as a sentence, when broken down into its component parts: adverbs, adjectives, pronouns and nouns, direct and indirect objects, and the like, all adding up to a bunch of words on a screen — can and often will become a struggle if you linger for too long, to re-read and read again, with the goal of finalizing the sentence before moving onto the next one. One Canadian author, Alistair McLeod (d. 2014), was apparently meticulous, and able to write his entire first draft in longhand, like some piece of f*cking perfect copy, and then to not have to go back to re-write a page, maybe add some additional notes in the margins. How you ask? Well, this bastard had already worked out the plot in his head, prior to writing a single sentence by hand. His first draft would then be handed over to the publisher, and they would set about to typeset, rather than re-write. Let me say it again — the bastard! This isn't me. I need to be able to type, and to use my backspace key, when I look back at what I've just written and then typically roll my eyes or laugh, until I scoff and come to the conclusion that maybe I shouldn't be writing at all.
So it goes when you write, or fancy yourself as an author, knowing fully there are an innumerable number of kinds of writers, those who abhor the use of punctuation (Cormac McCarthy comes to mind), while others elevate their level to such a high standard that only the rarest of the few are even meant to be able to follow their lead (Shakespeare). Not I. I'm neither a fledging nor a genius but a simple practitioner who labors for years to finish a novel, all the while knowing that the notion of perfection is bubbling on the backburner on my metaphorical stove, waiting for me to finally sign-off, and then hand off my draft to a principal editor, who'll invariably come back to me with more edits than there are holes in Swish cheese, to bluntly declare, "Oh just re-write this entire page... it's horrible."
Believe for one moment that what you're attempting to achieve has reached a level of perfection and I'll show you a face looking into the mirror while despair glares back.
And yet... in Agra, India where carpet weavers work tirelessly on weaving positively remarkable and traditional Persian Gabbeh carpets, some of which require a minimum of 300,000 knots to be tied, before their masterpiece is complete and ready for sale, they will purposely at the very end tie just one knot wrong, on purpose. Why? Because for them, in a profession that is passed down through their family line, they believe that only God gets to be perfect. I've traveled into this country and I experienced a great deal, even lugging home with me an authentic Indian carpet that still looks amazing to this day but this belief maddens me. God didn't weave the carpet, so why would God get a say in its perfection?
Then there are the Japanese, who will observe a rule of cherishing what is broken, a vase as an example that has been painstakingly pieced back together, each individual broken piece glued using real gold, shining like a diamond in between each seam. Why? Because to the Japanese that which isn't perfect is perfect, and because its broken state elevates its status to become more valuable. God doesn't enter the picture, though their standard of perfection is a standard all of its own.
It makes me crazy when I think of little ol' me and how I'm going to send myself to the looney-bin one day soon down the road because of this whole notion of perfection. Believe me when I say that after having devoted nine years of my life to writing my seventh novel, and after umpteen drafts, editors, corrections, re-writes, in the end when I read through a printed copy, instead of marveling at my perfect prose, I found myself still second-guessing my work, and re-writing sentences in my head, pondering how far I've come in my writing journey and my ability — not perfect, not too far from perfection, merely acceptable.
Perfection is a bullseye that only the master players can hit from ten paces away.
I don't like it when the sands underneath my feet continually shift, daily, hourly, or even by the second. I know in my heart that to strive for perfection is analogous to setting yourself up for ultimate defeat, disappointment and fear, doled out at the hands of reality and maybe too a little self-loathing needs to be sprinkled in for allowing oneself yet again to fall into the trap of striving to achieve perfection.
Yet, we like the notion of perfection. I'm of the mind now that wanting to achieve perfection is a direct reflection of how we feel about ourselves. If we're feeling grand, confident and full of pee and vinegar, then perfection feels like an easy reach. Conversely, when we're feeling low in energy, overly tired, and maybe even a little depressed, then the idea of striving to achieve perfection feels like a dead weight around our necks, a total waste of time, and an unnecessary burden.
Isn't it enough that you push yourself to be supposedly perfect, without someone else telling you that you can do better, to be more perfect, or that they feel entitled to judge your progress? Yes! It is enough, even when its a hypothetical discussion on the nature of perfection.
When I write a new novel, and make slow progress, I am very much aware that this is due to my sense of wanting to craft the perfect sentence, to be followed by the perfect paragraph, a full page of beautiful prose that will spill over into the next chapter, and therefore the next and next, until such time as I've completed the perfect first draft, flaws and all. Ha! This rarely, if ever, is the case. Each page is a laborious process of me fighting with myself to write the best sentence, to the best of my ability, without being the very reason why I'm holding myself back. My critical eye is never satisfied. Something as simple as a sentence, when broken down into its component parts: adverbs, adjectives, pronouns and nouns, direct and indirect objects, and the like, all adding up to a bunch of words on a screen — can and often will become a struggle if you linger for too long, to re-read and read again, with the goal of finalizing the sentence before moving onto the next one. One Canadian author, Alistair McLeod (d. 2014), was apparently meticulous, and able to write his entire first draft in longhand, like some piece of f*cking perfect copy, and then to not have to go back to re-write a page, maybe add some additional notes in the margins. How you ask? Well, this bastard had already worked out the plot in his head, prior to writing a single sentence by hand. His first draft would then be handed over to the publisher, and they would set about to typeset, rather than re-write. Let me say it again — the bastard! This isn't me. I need to be able to type, and to use my backspace key, when I look back at what I've just written and then typically roll my eyes or laugh, until I scoff and come to the conclusion that maybe I shouldn't be writing at all.
So it goes when you write, or fancy yourself as an author, knowing fully there are an innumerable number of kinds of writers, those who abhor the use of punctuation (Cormac McCarthy comes to mind), while others elevate their level to such a high standard that only the rarest of the few are even meant to be able to follow their lead (Shakespeare). Not I. I'm neither a fledging nor a genius but a simple practitioner who labors for years to finish a novel, all the while knowing that the notion of perfection is bubbling on the backburner on my metaphorical stove, waiting for me to finally sign-off, and then hand off my draft to a principal editor, who'll invariably come back to me with more edits than there are holes in Swish cheese, to bluntly declare, "Oh just re-write this entire page... it's horrible."
Believe for one moment that what you're attempting to achieve has reached a level of perfection and I'll show you a face looking into the mirror while despair glares back.
And yet... in Agra, India where carpet weavers work tirelessly on weaving positively remarkable and traditional Persian Gabbeh carpets, some of which require a minimum of 300,000 knots to be tied, before their masterpiece is complete and ready for sale, they will purposely at the very end tie just one knot wrong, on purpose. Why? Because for them, in a profession that is passed down through their family line, they believe that only God gets to be perfect. I've traveled into this country and I experienced a great deal, even lugging home with me an authentic Indian carpet that still looks amazing to this day but this belief maddens me. God didn't weave the carpet, so why would God get a say in its perfection?
Then there are the Japanese, who will observe a rule of cherishing what is broken, a vase as an example that has been painstakingly pieced back together, each individual broken piece glued using real gold, shining like a diamond in between each seam. Why? Because to the Japanese that which isn't perfect is perfect, and because its broken state elevates its status to become more valuable. God doesn't enter the picture, though their standard of perfection is a standard all of its own.
It makes me crazy when I think of little ol' me and how I'm going to send myself to the looney-bin one day soon down the road because of this whole notion of perfection. Believe me when I say that after having devoted nine years of my life to writing my seventh novel, and after umpteen drafts, editors, corrections, re-writes, in the end when I read through a printed copy, instead of marveling at my perfect prose, I found myself still second-guessing my work, and re-writing sentences in my head, pondering how far I've come in my writing journey and my ability — not perfect, not too far from perfection, merely acceptable.
Perfection is a bullseye that only the master players can hit from ten paces away.
