The first book I set out to work on seemed promising: it told the life story of my great grandparents and their labor union activism in South Africa. It was a little-known slice of history that I wanted to help bring to light given the personal connection. Thanks to my family's preservation of history, I already had historical documents in my possession. In February 2016, my grandma and I traveled together to Durban and Cape Town so I could conduct research. I was serious about writing the book and getting my family's story out there.
But
when I came back home from the research trip, I had a gut feeling the
book wasn’t
going to work out. Not only did I feel unqualified to write this
particular story, but also the task of writing it was so daunting it
worsened my
already existing anxiety. It was the kind of story that required a
combination of historical expertise and life experience. The book also
required more money to fuel its success—money for more research trips
and reading materials—something I simply didn't have the means to do. No
matter how badly I wanted to write the book, I realized I wasn't the
right person to.
The book, as I would later describe it to
my family and my instructors, started to feel like a dark rain cloud
hovering over me from the moment I woke up each day.
For a few weeks, I trucked along in denial, attempting to piece together chapters about my family's story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was consumed by the shame and embarrassment of admitting it wasn't working out. Instead of considering what I wanted to do, I agonized over what other people would feel and think. Embarrassed about my situation, I didn't want to potentially deal with questions from my MFA peers. Most of all, I didn't want to let my family down.
For a few weeks, I trucked along in denial, attempting to piece together chapters about my family's story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was consumed by the shame and embarrassment of admitting it wasn't working out. Instead of considering what I wanted to do, I agonized over what other people would feel and think. Embarrassed about my situation, I didn't want to potentially deal with questions from my MFA peers. Most of all, I didn't want to let my family down.
When I finally told my family and close circle of friends I was officially giving up, they completely understood. Relieved by their reaction, I felt a heavy weight lift off my shoulders. But that feeling was immediately replaced by a familiar sense of shame and embarrassment: I failed.
I’ve always struggled with perfection. From my grades to my appearance, every aspect of my life has always been ruled by my need to be perfect. In high school, it wasn’t uncommon for me to stay up until 5 a.m. running on Diet Pepsi perfecting an assignment in pursuit of an A+. Those hours were immediately followed by another hour or so perfecting my hair and my outfit in the mirror before school. Like Nina in Black Swan, I felt anything less than perfection was unacceptable.
While the rest of the world saw a straight A student (minus math), on the inside I battled with anxiety and perfectionism. My anxiety flared up whenever something didn't go as planned or when I felt I failed. My perfectionism was never really about me and what I wanted for myself. It was a constant pursuit of keeping up an impossible image of togetherness. I wanted so badly for others to like me, so much so that I constantly sacrificed my well-being.
When I failed at my first crack at writing a book, I spent nearly a month in bed unable to write anything at all. I questioned whether or not I was cut out to be a writer and I beat myself up for spending so much money on a research trip that, at the time, felt like a waste.
With only a few months left until my next writing residency for the MFA, I tried out (and eventually abandoned) two more book ideas. The embarrassment from that surpassed the shame I felt from giving up on my first book. Instead of improving, it seemed like I was only getting worse.
Then came book number four.
I landed on an idea for a pop
culture memoir about one of my favourite television shows and its
significance on both a cultural and personal level. Suddenly I was
inspired, unable to stop the ideas and words from flowing. As
I come close to the one year mark of abandoning my initial book idea,
I also completed 15,000 words of my new manuscript which I was able to write without doubting myself.
When I filed my final chapter to my writing mentor, I realized how much I'd changed from the young woman crumpled in her bed. Although the process was painful, I learned that it's OK to fail. It's OK to admit to yourself that you need to move on—and that doing so is not necessarily a failure. Trying to be perfect all the time isn't worth sacrificing your happiness. I learned that underneath my damaging pursuit of perfection, I believed in myself enough to try again.
If I stayed with my initial book idea, I would have grown extremely unhappy. Instead of writing the story I thought I had to write, I began the one I was always meant to.
When I filed my final chapter to my writing mentor, I realized how much I'd changed from the young woman crumpled in her bed. Although the process was painful, I learned that it's OK to fail. It's OK to admit to yourself that you need to move on—and that doing so is not necessarily a failure. Trying to be perfect all the time isn't worth sacrificing your happiness. I learned that underneath my damaging pursuit of perfection, I believed in myself enough to try again.
If I stayed with my initial book idea, I would have grown extremely unhappy. Instead of writing the story I thought I had to write, I began the one I was always meant to.
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