I had a moment with revising this novel when I thought, good enough.
It was short lived.
For the first time in years, I had a mini writer’s retreat. I imagined I could finally complete the novel I had been working on for the last ten years. This is the fifth or sixth draft in as many years.
In fact, I have only worked on this novel sporadically over the last few years. The work I’m doing now should have been done years ago. And wanting to be done with it, I had to look at it again, and voilà, the need to edit.
There is no reason this can’t be the final draft; no reason I should not be able to get it done in the few weeks allotted. But with all the time I have put into it, the process reminds me of the long work I’ve put into other novels in the past, novels that nothing came of. But this is a fact: writing a novel is a grueling process that takes a lot of time. I am frequently in denial at how much work it takes.
A long work gets written this way: one page at a time. If you don’t make the progress as you are writing, you will pile up pages that need to be rewritten, reimagined, revised.
Also, something can be complete and not perfect. The problem is when you want it to be perfect and it’s incomplete.
In the recognition of this, I sense how I need to let go of the complications. I sometimes strive for a complexity that is only a challenge to me. I can see in my methods a form of self-sabotage. I usually have to remind myself, I’m not going to reinvent the novel.
At the point of good enough, I think that maybe this is the best I can do. Or I can finish this enough to be presentable, knowing I can improve it later. I can take the attitude that I do towards non-writing work, particularly when it is for someone else, that I will do the best that I can in the time allotted. In other words, it doesn't have to be perfect, but I'll do whatever I can to make it seem like it is. This sleight of hand usually fools me into thinking it is faultless until I have to look at it again.
Editors always insist that you proof your work, and I always feel proud that I am not the one the comment is directed to.
Even if you are a perfectionist, the only person who knows this is you. One writer’s perfect is another’s good enough.
One might do well to pipe it down about their perfectionist streak, otherwise they may open up their work to unwanted scrutiny.
And no matter how perfect the writing is, if the publisher doesn't want your work, you might rationalize, why did I bother?
Still, I try to make my work perfect before I send it out. At one time, this merely meant grammatically unassailable. I got into the habit of, at the very least, having everything proofed. Perfection is a word I use only to myself. I won't tell anyone "This is perfect," though I secretly may believe it to be.
How to allow for imperfection? Might I even aspire to that? To be your own unique visionary, ignoring what’s right and proper. I get it in my head that there is a benchmark. But isn’t the real benchmark merely that the writing is good? To be so good that maybe you can get away with the work not being perfect?
How many novels are perfect?
One writer’s perfect is another’s good enough.
Revising can become a never-ending process. It is one thing to edit; it is another to strive for perfection. Because I get better at editing, the perfectionism I have today will be at a higher level in a few years. And because a novel takes such a long time to write, I have to try to anticipate my interest years down the road in order to produce a novel that I won't get bored with. In five or ten years, my taste will change. Or I need to write something that I can complete in a reasonable amount of time.
Procrastination is the other side of perfectionism. Perfectionism then might really come from a sense of doubt. When I was younger, I never used to be able to finish anything.
In an essay related to this subject, Charles Baxter says: "It seems a shame to say so, but the hardest part of being a writer is learning how to survive the dark nights of the soul. There are many such nights, far too many, as you will discover.“
In this essay, “All the Dark Nights—a Letter”, another great one from his collection Wonderlands: Essays on the Life of Literature, Baxter explores his own doubt and inability to do the work that is expected of him. “It’s good to be confident, but a lack of self-confidence can be turned to your own purposes if it helps you to take pains, to take care, to avoid glibness.” This reminds me that, for all his accomplishments, if Charles Baxter can feel that way, whither my striving? Maybe this is a more rational way toward getting the work done, eschewing perfection.
I remember once being shocked after I found a typo in some of my thesis work (and I was sure it was not my fault—it was the Word program!) and being horrified at what my advisor’s reaction was going to be. She wrote simply, “Something happened here.” No big deal. It was then that I realized my mania for perfection was out of proportion to reality.
In writing, I strive for a level that I probably can't reach.
If anyone offers comment on my work, I almost immediately shudder and tense up, and think, I don't know if I want to know.
Take poetry, for example. I feel a great freedom in writing poetry. But, as I have never formally studied it, there is a fear that I'm missing out on understanding the rules of formatting, though I've gotten away from concerning myself with that too much. As I’ve written more poetry, I have a sense that the poem has to be pure perfection—and it never really is. I almost always send out poetry that is good enough. And I am surprised most often by what gets picked up. Usually, they are not my favorite poems. Maybe there is a lesson in that.
Reminds me of a famous quote from Randall Jarrell: "The novel is a prose narrative of some length that has something wrong with it.”
Yes indeed. Thanks for reading, Jim!