Guest Post, Kaitlin Johnson: Fighting Perfection

I have a confession: I am a perfectionist. I know, I know. That has become a generic answer in job interviews all around the world. It isn’t exactly an uncommon trait when questions such as, “What is your greatest weakness?” arise. You know, turning your negative quirks into positive attributes and all that. But trust me, being a perfectionist can be crippling given the right setting.

Take writing for example. I first signed up for a writing course my sophomore year of college. I chose it on a whim as an elective to fill up space. There I was sitting in the very first row. I had my special notepad out, quotes written on it to keep myself motivated. My pen was freshly filled with never before used ink. I was wearing a sunny disposition and a go get ‘em attitude not yet sequestered by workshops with my peers.

I remember my professor’s one and only advice that semester: just write. I could not put it together. Just write… anything? I needed a plan, a prompt. I needed to stick to a guideline and follow the rules. Writing whatever came to mind was messy and unorganized. My thoughts were incoherent and I began rambling all over the place.

Fighiting Perfection

I remember writing about writing. I remember writing about not having anything to write. I remember writing about how I could not wait to get home and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But in between the frustration and the hunger, I began to come across an epiphany. Writing for the sake of writing un-jumbles your mind. Writing down your current thoughts removes them to make way for the deeper, more intimate and meaningful material.

As soon as I got over my fear of being messy, I wrote anything and everything. Sometimes the material was useful and I was proud to hand it in. Other times my writing was awful, and I sheepishly handed it over without making eye contact. The difference in myself was that I learned that it was okay to write something bad, as long as I was writing.

With this newfound euphoria for writing, peer workshops were my kryptonite. You see, another side to my perfectionism declares that once I deem something complete, it’s done forever. The end. Send it off to the publishing company. My thought process was that I had worked hard on my project and it had become my masterpiece. I wanted to protect it.

I walked into the peer workshop with doe eyes, clutching my story to my chest like a child protecting their candy on Halloween. My heart was racing and I could not wait to share my art with my classmates. We sat in a circle, because it’s not enough to hear them tear apart your story, they also look you in the eyes when they’re destroying your hopes and dreams.

Peer workshop was brutal. I could not comprehend why everyone was focusing on the things in my story that needed improvement instead of patting me on my back and giving me a “good job” sticker. But then it hit me; these kids were not my mother. These kids were not here to tell me how great my writing was. I was looking for affirmation in something that was complete; I was not looking to change it.

That’s when another epiphany hit me; my story was not art. It was a rough draft, something that needed time and care, changes and revisions in order to become something better. I had to open myself up to criticism and more messiness in order to become something great.

Striving to be perfect when writing was difficult. But once I got past that, I learned it was okay to be terrible. It was okay to crash and burn. It only makes you better.

Guest Post, Kaitlin Johnson: Road Trips and Writing

Road TripWe’ve all been there. Sitting at the computer desk or lying in bed with a laptop opened to a blank Word document. The cursor flashing, taunting you just like that cheesecake at last night’s party that you refused to eat because you want to lose five pounds. It’s the dreaded writer’s block. Flash, flash, flash. But nothing comes.

There are plenty of distractions. You open Facebook because you need inspiration from others around you, or you open up your favorite YouTube video to get in a humorous mood. Soon the seconds turn into minutes, minutes to hours, and the next thing you know you’re on your boyfriend’s uncle’s niece’s twitter account looking at grumpy cat memes. No closer to writing than when you began. You convince yourself that you’ll come back to it tomorrow with fresh eyes. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I’ve found that I do my best writing when I’m not thinking about anything. My best ideas come to me while I’m driving. I especially love long, monotonous road trips. Roads that I’ve become familiar with the twists and curves, the potholes and the speed limits. I don’t have to think about driving; I can allow my mind to wander.

Of course this poses a question. What happens when I have a brilliant idea and cannot write it down until I stop at a gas station to refuel on my second (or third) cup of coffee?  I used to use small post it notes–simple little reminders of an idea I had 150 miles prior. The thing is, I often could not rekindle the thought. What once seemed like a beacon of enlightenment now seemed like a two year old telling an incomprehensible story.

“How toaster relates to life, always popping up when we least expect.”

“Simile of rooster and ex-boyfriends.”

“Television show where the family only eats cheese but no one talks about it.”

Although I’m still slightly convinced some of these ideas may go somewhere, I finally found the perfect solution: voice recordings. They’re perfect for on-the-go storytelling. And thankfully, cell phones have them built in so you don’t have to carry around a tape recorder in your pocket or purse. Unless you’re into that I’m-a-spy-and-I-have-important-things-to-document thing, then good for you!

Sure, it’s a little awkward when you finally do stop to write down your ideas. Hearing yourself blabber on for twenty minutes about a love story that hasn’t been perfected yet probably isn’t the most normal thing, but it works. When you finally sit down at your laptop you have an idea. You can finally mold the world and the characters. You can go anywhere from there.

Sometimes all it takes is a starting point. Sometimes all it takes is a break away from the flashing cursor.