My newest book is out, and I got the box of author copies this week. As is my usual practice, I instantly plopped down to read my own book the minute it arrived, eager to see if any typos managed to get through and how the paging worked out. Seeing your own words on your computer screen is one thing; seeing them in print with page dividers and headings is another.
I read until late last night, but at 2:30 I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep (thank you, menopause), so I came downstairs to finish reading All My Loved Ones. And well...how do I say this? I'm not sure I like my own book. I mean, it was fun to write, I fell in love with the Finn character (that's his name, not his nationality), and I supposed it was a worthy effort. But I can see places where I could have used better wording, I think some of the plot elements should have been handled differently, it turned out with a stronger religious flavour than my other books -- perhaps more than I intended -- and...yeah. It isn't my best work. I kinda wish I could retract it.
The thing is, NONE of my books are my best work. Every time the box arrives and I read one of my own stories, I find flaws in it. Things I wish I could add or change. New ideas I wish I could go back and incorporate. I'm never satisfied with the final product. Some are better than others. But none are perfect.
I'm the same way with conversations I have -- I find myself later rehashing them and wishing I'd said things differently, approached people differently. Honing the words in my mind even though it's too late to say them. They're never quite perfect.
It isn't just about words and the role they play in my life. It's other things too -- the cabbages that don't grow as big in my garden as I'd envisioned, the slight waver in the coloured thread in the towel I'm weaving, the not-quite-right flavour of the stew. The strayed-from diet, the dog that still hasn't learned not to jump up on people, the weeds in the flowerbed, the unevenness in the stained glass leading. Just never quite what I was aiming for. Do you know, I still remember the one wrong answer that kept me from getting 100% on a hairy English test in 1986?
Now, a rational person would say "Nothing is perfect." And I know that intellectually. I'm familiar with the "a man's reach should exceed his grasp" yada yada. But if I know that, why do I feel so grumpy when I don't attain perfection? I am convinced I would be a much happier person if I could just lower my expectations. I know I'm not alone in this. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we expect more from ourselves than we do of other people? What is it engrained within us that keeps us aiming high even when we know we'll miss the mark?
On the other hand, I think I'd rather aim high and miss than aim low and hit the target every time. How boring would that be? But still, it would be fun to hit the target at least some of the time!
I do think I was worse about it when I was younger, and as I've grown older I've become a little less hard on myself. A little more understanding, tolerant, and practical. (On occasion, perhaps even overly self-indulgent.) I do know that I'm still a valuable person even if I drop a stitch while knitting. My self-worth isn't entirely wrapped up in turning out the perfect result, and I do have small moments of temporary triumph.
The process of becoming a polished and presentable human being takes a lifetime, and meanwhile, if we're running the track too intently, we'll miss the lovely view on the way. There needs to be a balanced way to strive for improvement without being anxious about it. A way to use our failures and flops as impetus to move upward.
It's now 4:00 and I'm going to stop typing and go read some Susanna Kearsley, because her books are perfect!
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