The embarrassment reached my throat as I began yet a third email to an “emerging writers” residency submissions manager. You see, I had been looking over my materials again, days after submitting them. A useless task except this time, I found a typo. The word “and” written twice, in the first paragraph of my statement of purpose. Soon, other errors emerged. The same noun repeated. Excessive descriptors.
A quiet horror lodged in my gut while my mind began sparring. Well, that’s okay, one voice said. They’ll see past those small things. You conveyed what’s important.
The other voice roared back. This is an application for a highly competitive writing residency, it said. All that matters is how well you write. This, a shitty first paragraph, is the easiest way to eliminate you.
The second voice had a point. If I was a reviewer, I’d likely chuck my application too.
“Well, I’m back!” A great opening line to the residency manager. I’d already sent her messages asking if converting my writing sample from Pages to Word had caused it to go over the page limit and then realizing that, no, sorry, it had not. In this latest message, I tried to strike a tone that showed I was aware of my neuroses but still worth taking seriously.
Luckily, she allowed me to re-submit my documents. I’d assume she also attached a note to my application along the lines of, “yikes.”
This was only one of several recent incidents where I fear I sent something off that wasn’t ready. A commissioned poem that I still play with a week after emailing it. A different writing sample for an application there is no chance of re-submitting.
It’s always the same. I’ll be so excited about a draft that I want to share it with someone, everyone, right away. Only days later, with a clear head and fresh eyes, am I able to go back and take it where it needs to be.
*
I’ve long known how to get a piece of writing to the point where it’s okay to send. Time, a fresh brain, and a printout are necessary ingredients.
This isn’t a new problem. I even have a post-it note above my desk that reads “let it sit.”
But, as is the case with the post-it by my office door that says “TURN HEATER OFF,” I do my best to confront bad habits and yet, the habits live on. (My space heater is fine, no office fires so far, thank god.)
*
It’s those two voices in my head that get confusing. Both have valid points: perfectionism can be a block. We only have so much time in our lives. The best is the enemy of the good, so philosophers have been saying for ages.
This mindset serves me well in my legal work. When I started public defense over three years ago, I promised I’d be in it for the long haul. The promise was less to my employer than to myself—I was yearning for commitment and thrilled at the chance to pursue the only legal career I’ve really wanted.
Part of this promise entailed cutting myself slack. The stats around public defender burnout are well-known. A 2023 Slate article, “The Relentless Mental Toll of Public Defense,” sums it up well:
Public defenders represent clients facing devastating, potentially life-destroying punishments; they witness the effects of criminalizing mental health needs, substance use, and poverty. A 2020 study of public defenders, jointly conducted by faculty of Rutgers University–Newark and Drexel University, concluded that public defenders suffered from the “stress of injustice” or the “demands of working in a punitive system with laws and practices that target and punish those who are the most disadvantaged.” —Beatrice Ferguson
Most of the talk of burnout in public defense relates to trial work, which I don’t do. However, secondary effects reach even the protected enclave of appeals. Like a sweeper, or perhaps goalie, in soccer, an appellate attorney works with clients on what is often their “last chance” at relief.
That stress weighs on us, as does the need to move cases along. Thus, my decision upon starting this job to do “good enough,” as opposed to attempting perfection. I’d rather maximize my effort on getting the ideas right than making sure each paragraph contains no superfluous words. I will occasionally find an “and and” mistake in a filed brief, and (and) that’s okay. In the long run, it’s the substance that counts.
But as a novice creative writer, I’m not sure the same attitude works. It’s competitive out there. So many fabulous writers and only so much money, support, and opportunities. A doubled-up “and” is likely reason alone to toss the application.
*
It’s surprising, to me at least, that I feel I can be more relaxed with my legal writing than my creative work. But art is like that. I’m not sure I see space for “good enough” just yet.
To the reader who received a poem earlier this week, I want you to know I’m still tinkering. Playing with the third and final lines because they don’t quite click.
This is the downside of self-publishing. The ability to hit “send” without a fresh-eyed editor telling you that, no, the paragraph is not good. It’s not ready. It’s not the version of itself that you want to live in the world.
Let it sit. Let it sit. Let it.
I love going back to old poems and seeing what, if anything, I want to fix. This doesn’t bother me. I think of them as living documents. Yet when I’ve sent someone the draft that now doesn’t feel right, what obligation do I have to update them? To ask to re-submit, so to speak?
I’m genuinely stumped. I want so badly to produce good work and know at times I’ve done so. But the other voice wants to share share share! Write and send!
I want to make space for them both.
In 2007, The New Yorker published the edits given to Raymond Carver by Gordon Lish for what would become Carver’s famous story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” With the caveat that I know very little about editorial relationships, it’s remarkable to see the changes Lish made. Whole chunks taken out and repurposed, and brilliant lines inserted that I would have attributed to Carver alone.
“Focus on the process instead of the goal,” says some article about producing creative work. Okay. Well, does that mean part of my process is continually wanting to revise? Go back and tinker, re-read, revisit? I’m not sure.
What I really want is to have a project that’s ready for an editor as talented as Lish. Someone I trust who has a vision for what the thing can be. It gets lonely out here, writing words and hitting send. The flip side of freedom.
There will be time, I hope, for that.
I really appreciate you words and your honesty!
Your prose, as well as your poetry, are living things, offspring, children you birth and nurture. Every paragraph of an application, as well as each story, every post. Perhaps the legal writing is not a problem because you don't birth that, it's not the same creative process.
"Let it sit" is the same as "let them grow". Every child needs time, we can't force their growth. (maturity) In the meantime, we are often embarrassed. It's just the nature of relationships. YOU are not each thing you write. Each thing you write needs time to mature, come into its own.