Category Archives: perfectionism

I Hear You

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Last night, I received an amazing gift–a long email from my cousin (someone I don’t see or talk to very often) containing heartfelt and thoughtful reflections on my music memoir manuscript, Imperfect Pitch. What struck me most was that even though his experience was different from mine, being 18 years younger and on the other side of the family tree, he could resonate with the way family messages contributed to the themes of the book, particularly around perfectionism. In other words, he heard me.

And as feedback about Immigrants oozes in slowly, I feel gratified for the readers who have mentioned the ways the book has touched them. I was particularly taken with the Amazon review that referred to the book as a “journey of the heart.”

Also last night, I attended a reading around 40 minutes away at the Lava Center in Greenfield, MA to hear my friend D.K. McCutchen read from her book, Whale Road. Before she read, many poets shared work at the open mic., much of which was–by their own admission–work in progress; some of it was written that day. While my inner perfectionist-in-recovery was awed by some of this risk-taking, especially when hearing a few hesitations as people paused over scratched out words and read phrases that my inner editor was ready to cut, the point wasn’t to read “perfect work.” The point was to be heard. Many people read highly vulnerable material, that exposed them in all their rawness. And the response from the audience, as appropriate, was simply, I hear you. 

This Third Tuesday reading series seems to have created a warm, accepting, enthusiastic and tight-knit community. While it’s doubtful I’ll attend regularly because of the distance, I’m glad it’s there. We all need to find “our people,” those who will honor our need to be heard.

At yet another writing event I attended this past week, a round table discussion by Straw Dog Writers Guild entitled Your Writing Practice: Pitfalls and Solutions, facilitated by two faves in my writing community, Michael Favala Goldman and Lindsay Rockwell, many writers who were there talked about community as one of their biggest needs. And as some attendants lamented about losing their “inner oomph,” others discussed how community is one of the best cures for getting that inner oomph back–someone (or someones) who can say I hear you, and who will give you encouragement to share your work with others, even when it’s not (yet) perfect.

 

 

Poem Wrestling

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Today I completed Poem #30 for the 30 Poems in November fundraiser for the Center for New Americans–a day ahead of schedule, Whew!

Since tomorrow is still November, I may attempt a final poem. Usually, I like to write a cento (a collage poem using lines from other poems) from all the poems offered as prompts over the month. That will enable me to drop a poem that’s not working when I compile my collection of 30, kind of like having the option to eliminate the lowest grade on a series of quizzes!

Of course, at this point, many of these baby poem-drafts aren’t working too well, and getting rid of only one won’t solve that problem. That’s where poem-wrestling comes in. My December writing focus will be on honing these poems into a shape I can share with those who donated to the fundraiser without being too embarrassed about them, even though most of them will still be far from my perfectionist standards.

But perhaps, part of this practice is also about being more comfortable showing my flaws in public–as I did, last weekend when I was asked to be part of the rotation of family musicians and play five minutes of background music on the piano for the appetizer hour of my nephew’s wedding celebration. I NEVER play the piano in front of other people, as those who are familiar my journey back to claiming my piano-playing past (which I wrote about in my not-yet-published memoir, Imperfect Pitch) already know. But I said yes, because I’m loyal to my family and my brother assured me no one would be listening. So, here I was, first on the list of the family players approaching the ivory among the (thank heavens) rising din of chatter. I pretended I was alone and played the pieces I’d prepared, even adding a little klezmer-inspired tune I’d composed on the spot the day before when humming to my grandchild to get him to take a nap.

I actually had fun, because I really was able to play as if I were alone in the room. And I think that’s what I’m going to have to do as I wrestle these 30 poems–pretend I’m alone in the room and see where they want to go without thinking too much about the added pressure of having to share them.

What will poem wrestling entail? Many things, but briefly–zeroing in on what the poem is really about and then thinking about whether each image builds on that or feels like a random aside. Also, looking closely at language and form: how do the words sound on the page. I play a lot with rhythm and repetition of sound patterns. I also look for places I can improve enjambments or use space more strategically.

And because I’m a perfectionist, I’m often writing 3 or 4 or 5 versions of each poem, then letting a version sit for a couple of days before reviewing it. Sometimes I’m so bemused by what I’ve done as in that funny Christine Lavin song, What Was I Thinking, I go back to an earlier version.

And as the days of December wane and my deadline for sending the poems to donors looms, like the cat hesitating at the open door, (an image in the poem I wrote today) I’ll just have to go bravely into the headwind.

 

 

Accepting the Hard Stuff

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I’ve been in Florida for the past few days visiting my 92-year-old father-in-law, who was been plagued by dementia. Despite the warm, sunny weather and proximity to the beach, this is never a trip I look forward to–even as I’m touched by N.’s stretches of cogent lucidity between the storms of anger and confusion, where he talks poignantly about how sad he is that his life has changed so much. As someone who valued his independence above all else, as he continues to point out when asked to look back on some of the happier times in his life, having to succumb to 24-hour care and supervision often makes him feel that his life isn’t worth living any more.

But I know I need to accept things, he says to me over dinner. And enjoy what I can, like this food. And be happy that I can stay in my apartment, and that I have a wonderful family. I know I need to be grateful for all of that.

It’s an easy adage to repeat. But much harder for anyone–those with dementia and those without–to implement. How do we truly reach a place of gratitude and acceptance of whatever happens to befall us? Especially, when we can’t change the situation, but even when we think we can?

I recognize the extreme privilege I’ve had in my life up until now of not having dementia or some other life-changing debilitating disease. And yet, as both a continually aspiring and a recovering perfectionist, I find myself constantly navigating the question of when I should push myself to do something better than I’m currently able, and when I should accept the status quo. Especially in my creative pursuits. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about learning Kol Nidre on the piano, and trying to accept that I would likely never play it at the level I wanted to. And in writing, as well, while I’m generally pleased with many of the things I’ve written, it’s hard to stop berating myself for not writing as well as ____________ (hundreds of names could fill in that blank) or not having accomplished as much in my writing career as more recognized writers.

As I sit on the beach, I try to practice some of the meditation techniques I’ve learned from the app I’ve been using this past year. Label the breaths: in/out, try to match them up with the waves. I get distracted easily. There’s a radio playing. A helicopter overhead. And I’m still on edge from just having to tell N. at least five times–or seven–or ten–what the plan is for the next day. He’ll have lunch with his aide at the senior center, as usual. We’ll come over after he gets back–in the afternoon, and take him back to our place and make him dinner.

He frowns. I need to go to the senior center.

I tell him one more time that we’ll see him after the senior center.

The lady (his aide) will be lonely if I leave, he protests.

I’m sure she understands that it’s important for you to spend time with your family. 

I keep trying to understand things, he tells me. And when I ask someone to explain it to me, I can tell that they think I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m just trying to understand. 

You’ve always been very persistent, I tell him, remembering the hours and hours he put in every day, writing down steps, studying videos, when learning to ballroom dance. It’s both a strength you have, but now it’s also a curse, because there are some things your brain can’t process. Please trust us and don’t worry so much about tomorrow. The day will work out. 

But he doesn’t let go of the worry. And why should he, just because I tell him to? Cultivating  faith that things will work out is a hard habit for those of us who’ve spent our lives priding ourselves on our own agency in making things happen.

I get up from the beach. No way I’m going to get anywhere near a state of inner peace tonight. Yet, I make sure to express gratitude for the sloshy sound of the waves and their dependable rhythms as the world just keeps doing its thing–with us, or without us.

 

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Confronting Perfectionism–at the Literal Grassroots

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T minus 48 hours until I leave for a three-week trip to Japan, and what am I doing? Pulling grass clumps out of the gravel driveway.

During the past several years, I let the driveway and the connecting brick walkway to the side entrance of my house go to pot–or more literally go to grass. Because keeping it weed-free was like the Mickey Mouse scene in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. There was simply no way to keep up.

So last fall I paid a landscaper a lot of money to re-gravel the driveway and literally unearth the brick walkway, which had become completely covered with sod. And I thought that would be it. But, silly me–the grass and assorted plants underneath the gravel and between the squares of brick had other ideas.

Since I’m opposed to Round-Up and any other earth-toxic remedies, Google gave me two choices: weed by hand or treat the area with a solution of white vinegar and dish soap. This means I have spent many hours this summer in the hot sun pulling clumps of grass out of the driveway, since that method was listed as more effective, saving the vinegar/soap solution only for the stubborn pieces that refused to budge. I’ve discovered that while vinegar kills some of the grass, it doesn’t necessarily penetrate down to the root system, or kill all of it, so I have to keep respraying. And for every tuft of grass I pull out, I can be assured that the next week–or maybe even the next day–there’ll be more green blades sprouting nearby. Aargh! Mickey, I feel you!

Usually I just focus on the most offending area for ten or fifteen minutes, which makes the task manageable, figuring I can keep things under control in piecemeal fashion without letting the obsession take over my life. But today, knowing that the grass was going to get a free pass for three weeks, I spent two hours at the call of my perfectionist demons. Am I really a bad person if the grass takes over? I tried to talk back to them as I heaved out another recalcitrant hump of crabgrass and shook out the large pieces of gravel that stuck to its needy roots.

Of course, I’m not a bad person, even if I return to find my walkway a snarling mess.  Nevertheless, I felt deluged with shame last year when I had to admit defeat with the driveway and call for professional help–the same kind of shame I felt when I first returned to playing the piano and couldn’t get through any of the pieces I wanted to play without a million mistakes. But somewhere in the past three years with piano, in addition to acquiring more dexterity through frequent practicing, I’ve learned to laugh when I mess up, then patiently go over the tricky passages. And then, even if I still can’t play the hard parts perfectly, I tell myself I’ve done well enough for today. And that playing the piece still brought me joy. Like my flower garden, which is NEVER weed-free, but still a pleasing, cultivated chaos.

(Especially now that my walkway is clear!!)

And like all that practicing, which HAS made the hard parts easier, I’m also celebrating all the weeding I HAVE done since the beginning of the year. And I’ve got this YUGE weed pile to prove it! LOL!

And I got a blog post out of this morning’s ordeal. Considering that Substack is adding to my perfectionist anxiety by sending me nudges to blog once a week, I’m happy to have one more item crossed off my checklist. Now, on to packing. I’m looking forward to blogging next time from Japan–where I’m sure the flowers will be perfect!

 

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Gardening: An Antidote for Perfectionism

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It’s May, which means it’s time to get real about the garden!

April has always been a hard month for me emotionally. (I resonate with T.S. Elliot.) I generally feel as unsettled as the weather. The minute we get a warm day, I’m warring with my impatience, chomping at the bit to start planting, while at the same time feeling anxious about how I’m going to incorporate daily gardening time into what seems like my already too busy life. And when the days turn back to being cold and rainy, there’s actually a part of me that feels relieved that I can stay burrowed into my winter self for a while, though I wonder what masochistic inner voice is making such a silly choice. Meanwhile the crocuses, the daffodils, the rhododendrons, the pink and white flowering trees are lighting the world with promise but fading so quickly, I worry I’m not paying enough to attention to enjoy them before they’re gone.

But now it’s May. The peas, onions, cilantro, and tat-soi are all planted, and half of my garden bed has been prepared as I wait for some reliably warmer weather to plant the more vulnerable vegetables. A few of the daffodils are still hanging on, while the tulips I planted last year are springing out among the wild violets and dandelions. We’re still getting cold, rainy, weather, but this didn’t stop me from seeking the garden yesterday the minute I felt stuck with a writing project. There is something about feeling the dirt sifting through my fingers that consistently gives me my best writing ideas. My writing/gardening motto: When in doubt, go out!

I didn’t grow up loving gardening. As a NYC girl, I think I was a teenager before I realized that vegetables didn’t come from the supermarket. When I first moved to western Mass. I didn’t really get what the fuss was about when people made a point of proudly showing me their tomatoes.  Yet, gardening is a thing here, so when my downstairs neighbor at the first house we rented long-term said she’d teach me how to garden and we could make one together, I agreed. And fell in love.

Some people find the endless cycle of weeding and digging and mulching and watering a kind of drudgery, but I make sure to stop the minute I get tired of a task–which makes the 30-60 minutes I try to spend each day a joy rather than a chore.

What I love most about gardening is that I have no desire to do it perfectly. Each thing I manage to grow and harvest feels like nothing short of a miracle, even after more than thirty years of experience. If the peas don’t come up, I shrug and re-plant them if it’s not too late in the season, or figure I’ll buy some from a local farmer. Some seasons I’ve replanted cucumbers and zucchini four times before they didn’t wilt or get eaten by animals. While I like to exchange tips with other gardening enthusiasts, I don’t spend any time comparing my gardens to theirs. Really, all I want is to get my hands back into the dirt and dig up some writing revelations as I pull out the stubborn blades of grass. And to jump for joy as I see the asparagus spears poking their heads out of my little plot. And celebrate the delicious mint from last year that’s survived the winter and come again all by itself. Time to make a mojito!

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The Quest for Perfect Words

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It’s amazing how many times I can edit the same piece of writing. For the last five days, I’ve hunkered over Ganesh Ascends to Heaven, about a woman who kills an Indian pedestrian in the U.S. and goes to India to try to make sense of the man’s paintings and her own life. It’s one of the stories in my forthcoming collection, Immigrants (Creators Press, Fall 2023).

So I’ve started every morning re-reading the same 14 pages, shifting pieces of paragraphs back and forth–up and down the page, deleting words and putting them back in; deleting commas and putting them back in; going back to a file of an earlier draft to splice in a sentence I’d eliminated, all in the quest of trying to make the story sail more smoothly.

And the dirty truth: I couldn’t tell you with certainty whether what I’ve come up with is better than what I had before. But I think it is! At least–today–I like it a whole lot better!

I will say this: it absolutely helps me to take breaks from my writing, long breaks, where I can return to what I’ve written with my mind in a totally different place and assess the story as if I’m reading it, rather than writing it. I just have to hope that I don’t have too many “What Was I Thinking” moments that Christine Lavin totally nails in her very funny song.

The important thing to remember is that everything is changeable, but also to take care not to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

What I noticed on the initial read this round, having not looked at the story for a couple of months was a clunkiness to the writing–details that didn’t need to be there that slowed the story down. So, I was able to chop out 300 words, shortening the story by an entire page, with no essence lost.

And I noticed more sloppiness–places where I used the same verb or a weak verb, or too many instances of words like “that” or “just.” (And this was after spending a month last year on micro-editing the entire collection, focusing entirely on sentence structure and word choices.)

And it’s also after two rounds of editing by my publisher, who has been great at flagging larger contextual/developmental questions as well as clunky and ungrammatical phrases.

So the underlying moral of this story–perfection is elusive, like the graph going toward infinity. Yet, I feel energized pursuing it, getting closer and closer to that unreachable axis.

 

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