The first time you spit something into reality, so rarely is it what you pictured. When it was writing, I found myself furiously scribbling, certain I’d come up with the Next Great American Novel, yet I’d wake in the morning, read back my work, and cringe, incredulous at how I’d ever even considered turning in the pages for a grade, let alone how I’d ever thought the words were something special.
The bliss of an idea existing solely in our heads lies in the security of knowing that, within our minds, this idea is perfect. With a simple shift in thought, we can try multiple renditions of it, practically effortlessly. We can cut and paste, undo and redo. There is safety in mentally perfecting something, and there is fear in attempting to translate that idea into a reality.
This past week, I conducted my second interview. I asked question after question, yet found myself floundering, having difficulty eliciting interesting responses. The whole hour felt somewhat lackluster. As twenty, thirty, forty minutes went by, I found myself deflating, becoming increasingly disappointed in myself. Starting this project, I was so confident in my ability to discuss literature, to ask questions —after all, the discussion part of English class in high school was what I thrived on. Suddenly, I was second guessing myself. Self doubt began seeping in. Yet, what irked me above all else was not failure, instead it was the angering fear that, this project’s core idea is good —and I’m going to be the one to ruin it. What if this project is a great idea, but someone else would be better suited to carry it out? Denying these fears feels disingenuous, like dodging reality.
So, perhaps, counterintuitively, I allow myself to indulge in these fears. BUT, with one condition: don’t write myself off yet.
I’ve been using rationality to combat that sinking feeling, and thus far, using logic as a defense seems to be somewhat effective. Realistically, embarking on any new project requires a new set of skills, which inevitably promises a learning curve. This learning curve requires patience. Thus, in the same way it’s not fair to immediately deem a piece of writing brilliant without giving it time to sit, it’s also not fair to write oneself off as “bad at something” without allowing enough time for evidence to gather. Only after enough evidence has compiled can one begin searching for a pattern, and ultimately can one come to a final conclusion.
So, how long is long enough? Who’s to say for sure, but I’m giving myself a year. To be clear, that’s not a year to reach perfection. That’s a year to reach significant improvement. Now, what’s “significant.” I’ll know I’ve improved enough when I feel confident in my skill, yes, but also confident in my growth, sure that I will continue improving, without fear of plateauing at a point that’s not strong enough to support my goals.
Until then, I’m forcing myself to withhold judgement.