Ancient rug makers place one error in every carpet to remind all of us that only the Divine is perfect.
I realize that I have a strong craving to write a perfect novel, or perfect poems. And when they aren’t perfect I won’t send them out. Or give my best. On one hand I work on the draft, but another part of me pulls away.
I wonder what would happen if I just plan to add a flaw to each chapter. Would that free me up? I am going to try it later with a poem and see what I get.
I know I warm up to people that admit they aren’t perfect. A sense of one’s own flaws make us– and our characters more interesting, more fully human. If I create a perfect character, I have created a caricature and not a person. When I pretend that everything is totally alright– which it never is– I wonder if I don’t alienate people, rather than draw them closer.
I don’t know– but i can only find out if I try it out on my writing and in life itself.
What I am certain about is that demanding perfection from ourselves will cause writer’s block.