Of Perfect Imperfections and Worldly Anxieties

Being a writer is an exercise that many who go by this title grapple with everyday. There are those who do it as their day job, the one that puts the food on the table yet there are those that write to fill up what they call hobby time. I am the latter. Because I don’t believe we were created to be one single thing. Versatility is the pump of my heart. Whatever kind you are, at the end of the day, we know, us writers, artists, that to not write is synonymous to hiding a piece of you and being ashamed of it. Of its ability to not only transform you but the world. Writers can’t not write, just like chefs can’t not cook, singers can’t not sing and painters can’t not paint. It’s the one thing we all have in common. That itch that never leaves you no matter how much you scratch, only leaving a stinging mark of a blister urging you to put a band aid on it…the band aid of the art that is you.
But then despite all this passion that wells up in you to just pour out your heart’s and mind’s glory on pen and paper or on your device, it is also difficult to come to terms with how much of yourself you are willing to share with the world or yourself. Even writing in your own diary where only your eyes see is a form of vulnerability. Because you are always standing on the outside looking in. Judging that beautiful garden that with good light looks spectacular but on a gloomy day you can’t bear to look at because it is not a sight for sore eyes. You’re always wondering if what you are writing will make an impact if any to anyone. Sometimes forgetting that in sharing your imperfections there is someone who will feel a code strike within them and hit the like button or share because they have felt a kinship with the silkiness of your prose.
My brother used to write poetry once. Growing up I always knew he had a deep soul and I would sneak some of his art on my blog until I got the courage to one day ask for his permission. He shared them on his Facebook but somehow alienated himself from his work, as if he thought it wasn’t good enough. As if his pride would not let him share with the world his imperfections. But there is beauty in the struggle and the roughness. Any art is always unfinished. And if we never allowed ourselves to share it, how would we bless the world, how did the many quotes we often chant and live by come to be gospel truths, the authors surely did not know that they would be quoted with such reverence years after their death, they just confidently stood by what they did and what they said. UN-afraid of the judgement the world is always so quick to throw.
There is also the fear that comes with the imperfection, the fear that someone else could have expressed a certain thought process better than you. There are times I have held back on writing certain things. Being someone who reads a lot and has friends who read AND write a lot, I am faced with the all too common moments of appreciating other people’s work, great or unknown. Seeing the way the words roll so effortless in my tongue and I’m genuinely impressed then the feeling of inadequacy sets in. How can you compete? At the end of the day, all artists cut themselves some slack. All individuals should cut themselves slack, not set too high standards, accept their space and own it, revel in their achievements however big or small, forget the anxieties, pat themselves on the back and accept their perfect imperfections. Maybe that will help in explaining the long sabbaticals I take with my blog, strangers on this new world we call the internet have come to show me that my literature has space it has already carved out for itself in the world and silencing it would be doing a disservice to it and myself. Isn’t that what all bloggers tell themselves? I wouldn’t know.


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