On Writing and Perfectionism

I am not a graphic designer. Making this thing beautiful has been driving me up a wall and I think I need to learn to live with how unpolished this blog will be, or at least with the idea that it will take me some time to get this to my liking. Ain’t no reason not to write a little something, though.

One of the problems I’m facing is that while I’m at work, my mind is abuzz with ideas. By the time I’ve left the building, many of those ideas have also left for the day, and they don’t carpool home with me. When I coerce my thoughts to make it back to my computer with me, I often find a lack of drive and motivation to write. At times I find it mildly troubling to be an aspiring writer who does not write daily or even weekly (outside of online class discussions, anyhow). Just sitting down and doing the damn thing feels difficult at times, and I believe much of that comes from my desire to strike gold immediately. I’m aware that Shitty First Drafts are the gateway to getting in some good writing. Putting pen to paper, or fingers to keys, is the first step. Putting thoughts down is the most important first step to writing everything else. I know this, yet I struggle. I do put some amount of pressure on myself for the first draft to be good. I don’t want to edit it a bunch, and I don’t want to have to futz around with structure too much. I want to write beginning then middle then end in that order, and for it to be good.

That is an unrealistic and frankly ridiculous notion.

I would hesitate to call myself a perfectionist, as I am proudly imperfect at many things. I can’t hose down a floor at work without sloshing water onto my pants. I ran ethernet cables from my living room to the router in the second bedroom and did a really bad job of it, to the point where my brother reminded me I could have called him for help. Just look at my dog, Simon. That boy ain’t right and I’m willing to take the blame.

But the desire to do everything right and perfect on the first try is there. It’s what makes being new to my job so difficult. Other people make mistakes and it’s no problem. To err is human. We’ve all been there, we will all make mistakes. On a logical level, I understand I too will make mistakes, no matter how experienced I am. But God, it kills me a little inside whenever I mess something up, no matter how small. I have my good days and good moments, but they are far outweighed by the desire to be a perfect human specimen.

Anyhow, it’s a shit approach to writing. Writing a draft and getting edits and making those changes then getting more edits then tweaking that third draft some more and so on until you’ve got a decent end product is the name of the game, and while my writing program has done wonders for my ability to take constructive criticism about my writing, I still have trouble starting. A lot of procrastination accompanies my attempts to write. On my best days, I remember that just getting any kind of starting point is what gets me motivated to keep going and that starting in the middle or at the end is better than spending hours staring at a blank screen, hoping a good lede falls into my lap.

It’s unfortunate how much you can rationally know a thing but still make your own life more difficult by not following your own advice.

I feel like I’m constantly at odds with myself. Maybe someday I’ll figure it out.

Shitty First Post

There are many major firsts in a person’s life: first word, first kiss, first divorce, first blog post. It’s been several years since my last attempt at a blog, and every single one started with a first post laying out rules and expectations. I told myself I wouldn’t do that, that I would just write whatever and however I feel, but here I am, thinking I should establish some kind of baseline.

What will I write about? Who knows. Day-to-day life, little curiosities, maybe science writing experiments that I don’t want to try publishing elsewhere. The goal is simply to write, and having a public outlet feels less like shouting into the void even if I don’t anticipate any real audience (while I quietly hope that at least someone wants to read along).

A couple of friends suggested I write at length about my day job, but I’m hesitant. While I don’t anticipate widespread popularity or significant traction, this blog isn’t exactly private, and I am mildly worried about oversharing. I’m a chronic over-sharer, despite what I tell myself about being a private person. However, I’d hate for sensitive information to upset people or to otherwise get me in trouble. That said: I participate in livestock and wildlife necropsies. I help pathologists take apart dead animals to find the cause of death, and that means I see a lot of truly, genuinely disgusting stuff. I’m sure it will come up from time to time, but I don’t want to write too much about any specific animals or cases, just in case.

There is a weird sort of vulnerability in starting this thing. As far as I can tell, I’m well-hidden enough not to come up in Google searches. Or at least not when you google Katherine Greene, and it turns out that is the joint pen name of two authors. The first Kat Greene I see is an English professor. What’s up with all these Kats and Katherines Greene wanting to write? Where did we come from? Where did we go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

I’m reminded that rhetorical questions are lazy and add no real value to your writing.

I spent much of my day daydreaming about all the things I wanted to write here tonight, but it’s basically all gone now. I worked late, I’m tired, I’ve got classwork due and a house full of animals who demand my care and attention. There is no time to care about the value of this post, or frankly my value as a person in this world.

(It’s been a weird, nihilistic, shitty kind of day, and I suppose that’s the kind of honesty you can expect from me, too.)

What a bummer note to end on. Solid job, Kat.

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