Create imperfectly and share it anyway

Why your courage is your most important creative muscle

This VoiceOver was recorded unedited in my home so there may be word jumbles, sounds of life or dogs, and, this week, a croaky throat. I hope you enjoy it whether it’s something you need or prefer - and thank you so much to those of you who have said you enjoy them!

imperfect photo of a perfect coffee

Hello lovely

This letter began as a hurried note to myself earlier this week, as letters often do, an idea and a possible title saved among a host of other ideas with possible titles. I write to you at the weekend, usually on the same Sunday that I send these letters out, sacrificing something else - maybe coffee with a friend or a chore I’ll probably ignore until next week - to tap away at my laptop instead. There are many (hugely dull) reasons for this system but largely it’s because that’s when I have the time and headspace to do it in among the rest of my life. Some weeks it comes together swiftly and others it’s more of a slog - so it goes. I’m (thankfully, so far) not short of ideas just the time I need to make them into something. Sound familiar?

I’d love to have pondered these ideas and gradually honed my words over a period of days and weeks through multiple rewrites. Could I make this letter better if I had more time? I would certainly hope so. That elusive “perfect” draft always feels just one more edit out of reach, doesn’t it? But I’ll still share this imperfect-but-hopefully-good-enough letter with you anyway and try to do better next week. That’s the work.

Now, to be clear, I’m all for us developing our craft and aiming for the best quality work we can create at any given point in time, but it’s all too easy to fall into a pit of perfectionism about the whole thing. It’s definitely much safer in the dark with our redrafts where no one is judging our work. If I leave it too long in between letters - or whatever else I’m making - I find myself dangling over the edge of that chasm about to fall in. Inside the it’s-not-quite-done-yet hidey-hole, time is infinite and, if we stay trapped in that echo chamber with our intrusive thoughts and half-formed ideas, we’ll never feel our work is ready to be seen.

We’ll never feel that we’re good enough to be seen.

Our willingness to put ourselves out there even when no one is reading, when no one knows who we are, when no one cares, is an act of creative courage. It’s not just the courage to risk being seen, it’s the courage to say, “This didn’t turn out exactly like I hoped, and I know it’s far from perfect, but here’s a little piece of me that a little piece of you might recognise.” It’s the courage to be the first to say hello not knowing whether the other person will wave back or roll their eyes. It’s also the courage to keep doing it when we know people are reading, when people have expectations of us and our work - perfectionism really levels up at that point, of course.

We’re often advised that we get better at writing by writing and, of course, it’s true. Practise makes closer-to-perfect. But sharing our work as it now, testing the boundaries of our courage in relation to our creativity, is the only way to build those artistic muscles and the resilience we need to be makers out loud in the world. We’re led to believe that we have to be good at something before we make it public, to do the learning in private in order to avoid looking foolish or risk failure in front of an audience. When I started writing here my first post was about how I wanted to stop being afraid - not just afraid to be seen but to be seen trying. Trying to write. Trying to share. Trying at all.

I often wish writing to you, taking photographs, and making things was my full time job. Of course, I know that dream doesn’t happen for everyone and, as we’re all constantly reminded by both professional writers and concerned relatives, most writers don’t make a living from their work alone. And, if they do, they will likely have to do things that make a lot of creatives uncomfortable like telling people they made something and it’s worth not just their time but also their money. *pearl-clutching gasp* I also know that the only way to absolutely guarantee that it won’t happen for me - or for you - is to stay hidden, to share nothing, and to avoid telling anyone that we make things and, maybe, they’d like to take a look.

So maybe I won’t make my living as a writer when I grow up but maybe, just maybe, it’s possible that I could even though my writing is just as imperfect as I am. Maybe because of that, who knows? Either way I know I have more chance of that happening now than I did a year ago when not only was I not sharing my work with anyone I wasn’t actually writing anything at all. And, even if I never change my job, sharing my work here has already changed my life: each time I send out a letter it makes me a little braver and believe in the dream of it all a little more. It’s been building up my creative courage week after week and that confidence has started spilling over into the rest of my life. That feels like magic to me and it’s not to be underestimated - magic never should be.

So, I promise to keep showing up imperfectly in these letters I write in stolen weekend moments, to keep waving hello. I hope you’ll keep waving back.

I’d love to hear whether you wrestle with these same perfectionist demons and how you’re exercising your creative courage. I’m right there with you, as always, cheering you on.

See you in the comments, friends.

Take good care

Charlene x