Today I started a blog. I had difficulty writing the first post because I am sometimes a perfectionist, especially when my work will be seen by others. This is because I am concerned by what other people think of me. I want to keep tight reins on my identity. Often, this tendency is detrimental to my creative processes.
When I was in high-school, I was the design editor of my school's yearbook. My school's journalism program was esteemed for its past publications and the many awards those publications had garnered. One of those publications had been edited by my sister. Now it was my turn. It was time for me to create something greater than anything before. This would be my magnum opus, my chef d’oeuvre. I would bring glory my school and myself (and hopefully some scholarships for my work).
The semester started with excitement. "Hello my fledgling yearbook staff! We are going to create something brilliant! Come, I will show you how!" It was my job to determine the visual style of the book. I could pick fonts, colors, design elements—it was going to be beautiful, trendy, sublime! I was going to lead an army of designers; they were going to help me bring my plan to fruition.
However, finding the style, the “look”, that the yearbook needed turned out to be harder than I had originally expected. I had always excelled in art classes and at designing posters and the like, but I had never faced a 1500 copy publication of a 230 page book. My initial excitement for yearbook began to wane. Inversely, the intensity of my other courses waxed. Calculus quizzes were failed. English assignments were forgotten. The more I had to do, the less I wanted to do anything. Every day I convinced myself that I was on the verge of inspiration. Any day now, I would discover the solution to the book’s design. I would begin to sketch comprehensive plans for the book’s design…and scrap them. None of them were perfect. My journalism advisor asked to see how my design work was coming. No. I couldn't show her any of my work. My work was composed of fragments and sketches, many of which had met the trash can.
Nights were spent staring at a blank sketch pad. It would come. The inspiration would hit. I had to believe. Nothing else could save me. I was breaking down. The supposedly easy senior year was turning into hell. A firestorm of deadlines and expectations. I could have easily met my teachers expectation of hard, honest work, but I could never meet my own expectation of perfection.
An entire semester passed without my discovery of my perfect design. An awkward meeting involved me admitting that no, I had not actually figured out the perfect design that I had been planning to unveil as soon as it was ready. The journalism staff missed its first deadline in nine years. I had doomed us all.
Somehow, with the help of the incredible staff of that year, my caring advisor, and a bit of loosening up on my part, the book was finished on deadline. In fact, it went on to win the top national award for yearbooks. Despite the accolades it received, it wasn’t until this winter that I felt comfortable reading and looking at the book that I thought I had ruined. Yes, the design is rough, but it has energy. Luckily, the eloquent prose makes up for a lot of the waffly design.
I still have trouble with my creative endeavors. I feel as though I need to have mastered a discipline (like writing, drawing, film, etc.) before I can share, or sometimes even start creating, my work. But skills do not grow in isolation. They need the sunlight and nutrients of criticism and collaboration. Yes, this blog post is weedy. There are most definitely grammatical errors, logical fallacies, and poor structures. But at least it exists, right? (Although sometimes I worry that I am just adding to the noise of an already excessively noisy universe…but that’s another post.)
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