Growing up, I always thought that perfection was always the best way to go. Because if the work you showed was anything less, then you weren’t trying hard enough.
Drawing after drawing, art class after art class, I would try my hardest to get my sketches the exact way I wanted them to. I would have images of what I wanted in my head, and I would have a tough time getting the idea onto paper because it never looked or felt the same.
Whenever I wanted to get things perfect, I would hold my work back from the people around me. I’d never want to share my work because it wasn’t good enough to my own imaginary self-imposed standard. It took a few years, but I saw that this creative hogging of ideas and space wasn’t doing anybody justice.
Somewhere along the way, I started to see perfection as a selfish thing. If I continued to chase perfection, I couldn’t see myself as somebody who wanted to make progress.
So now it’s me and the blank page on a daily basis. I could choose to write about whatever I want, so long as I share it afterwards.
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