It’s 7:30 a.m., and I’m sandwiched into my airplane seat, drinking coffee. I’m travelling out of town for a surprise birthday party, and I’m happily anticipating the lively event.
I mostly love a plane ride—a chance to disconnect from electronics and simply relax and read without the tedious but essential daily to-do list. But I have a concrete task to complete on today’s flight, and I’m reluctant to begin. For an interminable amount of time, maybe five years, I’ve been writing a book about how to develop a daily exercise habit. It was mostly a labor of love – a book that poured out of me with exultant energy, fueled by discovery, research, and a desire to help frustrated out-of-shape souls.
Then came the editing process: disconcerting developmental edits, unsettling feedback on style and tone, and mind-numbing line-editing tweaks. (I can see my editor’s raised eyebrows now; as if I was the victim here!) I stumbled my way through the progression, humbly surrendering my ego in the process. My occasionally staunch defenses became frailer and less-often voiced. In time, I capitulated completely to the wisdom, instinct, and expertise of my editor. And voila! The manuscript is done, and only the layout needs review. I must proof my book and give it a green light.
But I can’t get myself to start the final review. I’m terrified that the text will be bland, simplistic, and uninspiring. I’m worried that the tone will be bossy, overbearing, and unsympathetic. My editor has warned me that I cannot make any substantive changes. In other words, the die is cast.
My concern is centered on the knowledge that I will be dissatisfied with the finished product. I know it can’t be, and won’t be, perfect. But I’m traumatized by the thought that I won’t at least be proud of it, that I will be embarrassed to have my family and friends read it. Satisfaction is the elusive four-leaf clover of perfectionists, particularly unrealistic ones.
I’ve told my editor I will be done in three days, and I’ve allotted air travel time this weekend for the task. I’m completely captive; I didn’t bring anything else to read or work on, and I even denied myself the silly luxury of buying a magazine at the airport. It’s game time. I must meet and confront my formidable foe—accepting and acknowledging the final format of my book, Daily. There’s no turning back and nowhere to hide.
But wait! The airline magazine has Sudoku and crossword puzzles! I’m saved! At least for the moment.