Rough draft

An article by Don Quixote    2 Comments

My mother sent me an email criticizing (in a fun way) my typos in my blog. She of course called them spelling errors, to which I strongly disagree. “Wrote” is spelled correctly, granted the correct word was rote, but that’s not a spelling error, I simply used the wrong word.

Kara calls me up to tell me about my typos. Tom and Brandon will IM me and even go so far as correct my instant messages; Michelle calls gently from her computer. Every where I turn people are kind enough to point out my errors. This extends to a greater context than just typos, but that’s a blog for another day.

Pretty much everything I’ve ever done in my life has been a rough draft. Every paper I ever turned in during college was the first write through. Every sermon except two (both of which were preached at teen worship in St. Louis – shout out to the Vance’s) was preached on the fly from a scrap of paper with a few verses on it. The two plays I wrote for Breakaway (which I hear is now defunct), rough drafts.

From my blogs to term papers I have an aversion to going back and reading through what I wrote. I don’t know why that is. Well, that’s not entirely true. The problem is I cannot objectively read the things that I have written or spoke. They are living things birthed in a moment of passion and creativity. To make matters worse, when I read them, I do not see them as they are, I see them as I created them. The words that I read were the one’s that were supposed to come out the first time.

I’ve always lived my life that way. I’ve always made it by on good enough. In high school I always brag about being valedictorian, but to reveal my little inside secret, I didn’t graduate with a 4.0 or even a 3.9. I think I had a 3.85 or something. But my goal wasn’t to be perfect (though I did see if I could do my Sr. year while taking AP Calculus, AP English, AP Physics, and whatever else I was taking at the time), my goal was to simply be better than everyone else. So I did what I need to do that.

My sister Autumn is the perfect counter point to me. She is a perfectionist, she came home and studied math, got an A in almost every class (there was some unpleasantness in an econ. Class where she got an A- and ended up with a 3.99 and had to settle for Salutatorian). She study, re-read every paper, edited, revised, polished, not only academically, but personally as well. She always strived to be the perfect person, making all around her happy.

For me, it was good enough. Why work harder when this is good enough. This gets the job done, this accomplishes the goal. I won, great, time to move on to something else. I am a rough draft, I’m good enough.

I never understood why Autumn would work so hard, I had thought (and know that this is still true, though she might argue other wise) that she worked to perfect herself in order to please others; that she wanted that acceptance, that love, that affirmation. However, in looking back, I think that part of that had to be for her too, that knowledge that she had given her all, that she had done her best.

I struggle with that: doing my best. I don’t know that I have really done my best in anything (or maybe that’s just one of those lies I’ve always told myself), I’ve always done just enough to be better than everyone else. I measure myself against those around me, but I’m afraid to measure myself against myself; to put my whole being into something or someone. If I give my all and fall short, what does that mean? If I’ve done my best and my best isn’t good enough, what does that say about me?

So I continue to live my rough draft life, doing enough to be good enough, but never enough to be my best. I want to be my best (or at least I think I do), it’s just not easy. That’s why Michelle has been such a rock in my life, one to both stand on, and to have tossed through all my stained glass windows, helping me to tear down the weak, but providing the strength to rebuild, to do and be my best.

It’s not always easy to see the difference, but being the best and doing my best are not the same things. Just because I am “better” doesn’t mean I am my best.

One of my favorite books is “Oh the places you’ll go” (click the link to read the full text) by the good doctor himself. There’s a part that goes like this:

“Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.”

Games I can’t win. I don’t know that I like that, but I know that it’s true. While I can beat myself up, I can never beat myself. Even though it’s impossible, I must still try. Because you never know.

I am reminded of a scene from Gattica (great movie), where the brothers are having one last swimming contest, the older, weaker brother had always lost to his younger, genetically enhanced brother, but this time something is different; this time he wins.

Years later when they are confronting each other, the younger brother asked how he did it. He answer was simple, “You always saved something for the swim back to shore, I gave it all willing to risk never making it back.” Maybe that’s been my problem all along, I’m always saving something back for later.

Sometimes to win, you have to risk it all, you have to put all your chips on the table. To be your all, you have to give your all.

For now, I am still a rough draft, but I think I’ve found a good editor at last.

(editor’s note: this blog is a rought draft)