It’s My Manuscript, and I’ll Cry if I Want to
some thoughts on writing and perfectionism
The idea for Nine Dragon Court was sparked when my husband noticed a street sign during one of our weekly Sunday morning drives to church. It grew from there, flames fanned by antiquing trips in middle-of-nowhere Illinois towns and shutdown-induced adventures to local state parks.
Writing Nine Dragon Court was a steady coping mechanism throughout leaving my teaching job, finishing off graduate school, and starting my new job. It offered an escape from the boredom and anxiety of a country in near-lockdown. And then between beach trips and fried seafood, I managed to power through writing the final few chapters last week.
I asked for some alpha readers and printed it out, replenished my flair pen supply for my traditional color-coded revision process and laid the manuscript out on my dining room table. It was beautiful, white pages glowing in the sunlight.
And then I started reading it.
Most of my generation can claim an anxiety diagnosis, so mine does not necessarily make me special. But that also does not make it any less difficult to manage. My anxiety is not discriminating—it is willing to let me worry about nearly everything—but my two primary worries are:
A) Will everyone I love die?
B) Was that good enough?
As you might suspect, Worry A is rooted in some general childhood trauma stemming from too many losses happening too quickly. Under normal circumstances, it causes me to text my parents in the middle of the night to tell them I love them because what if they die in their sleep for absolutely no reason!? and to panic when my husband does not answer my calls because he was focusing lights in the theatre and what if he fell to his death!? Under coronavirus circumstances, it is more difficult to manage given the fact that the death of loved ones is a little harder to CBT away.
Ultimately, though, Worry A doesn’t affect my creative endeavors. Worry B, on the other hand, is both a driving force and a hindrance. Being a perfectionist means that if I am going to do something, I am going to do it well. However, it can also lead to procrastination and avoidance of the unfamiliar. I also frequently second guess myself, and nothing ever seems quite good enough. I’m still kicking myself over the two A-minuses I earned in graduate school, suggesting that Worry B may be hereditary; I’m sure you’ve heard of the “Asian F.”
Remember how I was reading my manuscript?
Guess what?
It wasn’t perfect.
I cried. A lot.
That was last night. This morning, I still feel a knot in my stomach when I look at the neat pile of papers beckoning me and my flair pens. I moved it to the floor so it would stop staring at me while I binge watch a show I’ve already seen before like a coward.
Tomorrow, however, I will engage in some much-needed cognitive restructuring. I will tell myself that no, Nine Dragon Court is not perfect, but it is far from a failure. It just needs more work. It won’t be easy, but I can do it. I might need some space, some perspective, but I will come back to it.
And in the meantime, I will do my own version of exposure therapy. Because I’ve got plans for another novel, and let me tell you, it’s not going to be perfect.