Obviously, I didn’t learn anything from my last post, for my obsession with perfection is as persistent and as torturous as ever.

Almost every day for the past three months, I’ve tried to write something… something funny, something meaningful, something memorable, something at least somewhat entertaining– SOMETHING! Anything! But nothing. Nothing has come of my efforts except a few measly paragraphs and a whole mess of stress. Ultimately, and unfortunately, my therapy has become my agony.

Six different story ideas. Six arduous attempts at storywriting, and…nothing.

I’d write and rewrite and read and reread like an OCD-stricken hand-washer locked in a bathroom lined with sinks, around and around I’d go, over and over again — rinse, wash, rinse, wash — but no matter how much time or brainpower I’d spend on a story, it just wouldn’t work; it wouldn’t mesh. It wouldn’t flow.

I’d get three or four paragraphs into a story, and suddenly, an unrelenting urge to check, recheck, and perfect would become so overwhelmingly unbearable, I’d have to stop writing. I’d become stuck, trapped, entangled in my obsession, and thus, completely and utterly unproductive.

Disgusted with myself and my fruitless exertions, I decided, no matter how painful or time-consuming, to finish and publish my next story.

And so, I wrote on, and after more than a month of type, type, typing away, I was astonishingly able to squeeze five full paragraphs from my battered, uninspired brain…and here they are:

1.) Just as my awkwardly large forkful of too-hot-to-devour-too-quickly, marinara-and-parmesan-coated, angel-hair pasta made its way passed my inelegantly parted, plum-hued pucker, my boyfriend Mike’s third cousin’s girlfriend’s father (a preacher, no less) decided to recite a short, meal-time blessing.

2.) Sitting somewhat center at an extended table of 18, partaking in Mike’s third cousin’s 30th-birthday brunch at a warm-and-cozy Olive Garden Restaurant somewhere in Georgia (with always-couth Mike on my right and his distant-yet-close relatives gathered ’round), my already-flushed cheeks swiftly turned an eerie shade of red nearing that of the spaghetti sauce, as I…gulp…swallowed the scorching clump o’ noodles — whole as can be.

3.) “Well, isn’t that just great!” I thought to myself…my eyes fixated on my plate, my esophagus burning itself raw as I envisioned a table filled with scornful, disapproving faces. “And to think, I almost made it the whole Thanksgiving week without offending anyone or embarrassing myself completely. (Well, there was that toilet-stuffing incident and, of course, the massive sofa drool), but this?!? This pasta-n-prayer mishap is definitely going to mar my ’she’s-so-perfect-for-Mike’ status.”

4.) Fortunately, no harm was done, for as I prepared to make my sincerest of apologies, removing the leftover bits of sauce and noodle from my gloss-stained lips, I heard one kind-hearted soul say: “It’s OK, Paula. Don’t worry about it.”

5.) “Well…um…thank you,” I replied, lifting my reddened head. “Halleluyah…” I exhaled.

It was as if an evil demon crawled inside my mind and maliciously constructed an unbreakable wall blocking me from creating the sixth paragraph.

I yearned for paragraph six, to publish a new story, to entertain my readers, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, glued to my obsession. My mind’s feet wouldn’t move.

Clearly, I needed help. The wall was much too large for one brain to handle, so I turned to my friend Lauren for some literary (and mental) advice.

Without hesitation, she happily agreed to read and comment on all five of my paragraphs, and as she studied my “work,” I monitored her face, searching for some sign of amusement, some sign of pleasure, but none appeared. Confusion was all I could see – deeply furrowed brows and pursed lips.

And then, she said it…four words I didn’t want to hear about a story I’d been working on for much, much longer than I should have.

“I don’t get it,” she said blatantly.

“What do you mean you don’t get it?” I questioned, wanting to drop dead right then and there.

“What exactly did you do with the spaghetti?”

“Here,” I pointed to the first paragraph. “See? I swallowed the pasta whole as Mike’s third cousin’s girlfriend’s father said a blessing. See?”

But she didn’t, and suddenly, I didn’t see it either. And then, frantically, I tried to explain it…but I couldn’t. It didn’t make sense anymore.

“Maybe if you move this sentence here, and this one here, it would work,” she suggested. “Or maybe you should just start over.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I responded, thinking about stabbing myself repetitively with her pen. “Yeah, um, Lauren, I’m done as a writer. I have nothing left to give.”

And after an hour or so of please-pity-me self-hatred and torment, I finally came to my senses. It was Lauren who set my mind’s feet free, for she had the heart and courage to tell me what I already knew but would never admit to myself: The truth.

My story sucked, plain and simple, and I needed to fix it, erase it, start over if need be, and the moment I realized this and accepted it, the wall came tumbling down.

Truth be told, lying to yourself won’t get anywhere — especially to the next paragraph.

This entry was posted on Monday, January 30th, 2006 at 7:28 am and is filed under Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.