DOOR: WRITER WITH NO SPELLING
Speaking of dreams, one of mine was to write at least one
book. The purpose of it was to give me a purpose in life, something that would
symbolize a little seed of mine in this world, a footprint on the sands of
time. Perhaps something pretentious. Perhaps a pretext to perpetuate myself
when I was no more than dust and shadow. In this journey of letters and forms,
I have tried to seek excellence, to feel proud of myself for a job well done.
However, I have also learned by trial and error that, in spite of my
dedication, to make mistakes would be that stamp that, as a human, I would
carry in everything I did. As Agent Smith said in The Matrix, “it is
inevitable.”
Why does it hurt so much to make a mistake? In my case, I do feel pain. It's like when you get your heart broken, you feel something tearing inside you, although your body remains intact. I have even gone through all the stages of grief. Two months ago, when I visited my doctor for a check-up, he asked me, How is your perfectionism going on? I was about to answer that it had actually gained weight. However, my lips could only glimpse a pitiful smile.
I don't really believe in perfectionism as a good advisor when it comes to projecting a dream, but I understand that logically and rationally, not emotionally. Just as I have tried with other aspects of my life—which I am not proud of at all—I try to mitigate their impact on me. I understand that it is part of my nature, yet I keep those absurd standards of perfection as far away from the spotlight of my work as possible to prevent it from stealing the limelight from my peace of mind. And no, it's not easy, I confess. I believe that each person reading this blog is doing the best they can to achieve their goals, maintain a harmonious work environment, or be in continuous improvement with respect to their values.
But what do you do when things just don't work out the way
you expected? A week ago I wrote with so much love a summary that fully
identified the structure of my book. I read it several times to verify that it
was well written. I felt very happy and sure of what I had written; what was my
surprise when I saw it published, and there was the mistake: instead of writing
an a, I put an “o” in a word. I felt that my heart was going to burst out of my
chest, but not out of uncontainable happiness, but out of overwhelming
frustration. Such was my dismay that I spent some days asking myself over and
over again why I had not seen it, why I had not been able to notice such an
obvious mistake.
The hangover accompanied me for days and nights, repeating
over and over again the same story about that mistake that cruelly embittered
me. A direct blow to my self-confidence, the one that, with so much effort, I
have been sowing over my valley of doubts. Then, I thought about whether all
this drama in my head defined all my work as a writer.
I accept it; I am not the best writer in the world; in fact,
I don't seek to be either. I simply write because it is my way of connecting my
spirit with humanity. And, in that connection, I give the best of myself,
because mediocrity is a suit in which I don't fit. Nevertheless, the occasional
letter will manage to confuse me again. The journey will continue to be
imperfect because the adventure to excellence simply never ends. I know that
the next mistakes will hurt a little less with time; I will remember that
continuous improvement never comes to an ending, and that definitely fills my
heart with hope.
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