It’s early in the morning on a recent Sunday. My weekly newsletter/blog post is set for delivery in the next two hours, but I’m racing to the office to stop it. In the 24 hours since its creation, I’ve become conflicted about its message.
The shortcomings of the blog post have just become apparent, but not due to lack of effort. Like every creation, I’ve endlessly massaged word choice and sentence structure. I’ve incessantly tinkered with themes and substance. I’ve interminably scoured the essay for the slightest vestige of thoughtless or disrespectful content. In the hours between scheduling the post for transmission and its distribution, I turn to it periodically to review and reflect.
My intentions are pure: to amuse, enlighten, and inspire within the construct of self-revelation. But I’ve been known to miss the mark, a point that my little band of loyal readers doesn’t hesitate to mention. I’ve inadvertently offended childless families, retired folks, and women who suffer the pain of infertility. What I thought was a hilarious story about getting dumped by my friends at the marathon finish line was perceived by one reader as a humblebrag. The feedback can be hard to read, and the anticipation of disapproval makes me ambivalent.
A recent article by the New York Times columnist Tim Herrera momentarily assuages my fears by reminding me that needless obsession with perfect writing impedes getting the work done. I am heartened by his assertion that relentlessly re-writing an essay doesn’t make it any better – it just makes it different. I am coming to terms with feedback whether I agree with it or not. I’m grateful for readers who take the time to respond and comment. I’ve learned that my reaction to suggestions or critiques is infinitely revealing. My goal is to tiptoe, gracefully, along the creative line between honesty and brashness. It takes unflinching courage to submit a product to public scrutiny, and I have a newly established admiration for essayists, bloggers, and writers who are willing to do so.
I’m trying to come to terms with the richness and beauty of imperfection. I live with the knowledge that disapproval is an inescapable component of literary or artistic work. The secret, I suspect, is to embrace a natural curiosity about the opinions of others – the origins, culture, and foundation of disagreement. For someone like me who is continuously clothed in a cloak of indecision, it’s a brutal commitment.
I situate myself at my desk and pull up my essay. I refine the prose that, in hindsight, might be viewed as hurtful. I hear a faintly triumphant brass crescendo as I push past doubt and indecision and save my document. I am imbued with momentary confidence with only minutes to spare before my newsletter’s scheduled dissemination.
The ship sails. I sit on the shore, resolutely surrendering to the knowledge of its inadequacy, but joyfully anticipating ideas for the next voyage.