Work in Progress

Life is a work in progress

I use this phrase when I am describing an unfinished piece of artwork or novel. It lets people know what I am talking about is not yet perfect. It's unpolished, unrefined, unedited, and in a word, unfinished.

It occurs to me that I never use this phrase to describe myself. It is certainly true of me. I am unfinished. I believe I will die unfinished. A thinking, intelligent human being is never finished. We grow, we adapt, we change.

I strive to be my best self. I'm not 100 % sure what that best self looks like. I'd like to be a lot calmer. I'd like to worry less and have more confidence in myself. I'd like the ability to earn a bit more money than I do at the moment. I'd like to be more trusting of others and not have my worldview colored by a narcissist's brush forever.

My art my way

I can be very stubborn about my art. I may paint and repaint a piece until I'm satisfied. I used to joke with other artists, especially painters, that I take more paint off the canvas than I put on the canvas.

It can take weeks, months, even a year or two for me to declare a painting finished. During this time I like to have the painting on display. I like to be able to see it when I walk past. I like to be able to make tiny adjustments here and there. Many people wouldn't see what I see, wouldn't notice adjustments I am making. Couldn't see what still needs to be added or taken away.

"Can't you put that thing away?" I've been asked. "No. It isn't finished!" I reply firmly.

I will vehemently defend my works in progress. I am a mama lion and they are my cubs. I will growl and scratch, bare my teeth, and stubbornly stand guard over my piece whether it is on canvas, a wall, or a sketchbook.

Painting isn't writing

Writing is a bit different because the only time anybody but me sees it, I have drafted, redrafted, revised, polished, and finally published. It is easy to say I have a work in progress even if nothing has left my brain to land on the page, or laptop screen and saved into Google Docs, whichever the case may be.

I can write by hand for hours on end. I am not lacking in imagination or words. Much of the time what comes out of the tip of my pen is simply gobblety gook. Sometimes I can't even read my own writing in order to transcribe it. I dislike transcribing so much, it feels akin to hatred.

I wish there were an affordable company that would take my handwritten document and transcribe it into a reasonable semblance of a manuscript.

When you dip your paintbrush into some paint and brush it against the canvas, you see immediate results. Good, bad, or ugly there is something concrete to hold in your hands and call it a painting.

With writing, this is not even close to being the case.

For me, writing starts as an idea. I will play with that idea in my brain for a long time, sometimes years, turning it this way and that, tasting the flavor of the words forming the idea. I will reject 100 ideas for every 1 I put on the page. And once I start writing, I will rewrite, edit, revise, tighten up and polish before I call it finished. Up until this point in the game, painting and writing are very similar.

However, just because I have a coherent, polished, manuscript doesn't mean I have a book. The next part is equally as hard, if not harder, as writing the story. Now I have to shop for an agent. I have to write a query letter and wait. And wait. And wait some more. The fate of my book is now largely out of my hands. Finally, I will get a response from an agent asking to see my full manuscript. If they like it, there's no guarantee they will, we sign a contract. Then we find an editor and finally a publisher.

It can take years to even find an agent. More years to find and work with an editor. Signing a publishing contract can take just as long. It is highly recommended to get a lawyer involved. More time goes by. Until finally, you have a publishing contract with an advance sum of money.

Once you get your advance, you, your agent, and your publishing house have to promote the crap out of your book. This is a stomach-dropping time for many new authors. Because that advance? You have to sell enough books to pay the advance back to the publishers. Once you have earned enough in book sales to cover your advance, you can finally start making a profit off of any future sales.

A painting may take a while to be finished, but once it is, you either sell it or show it and then sell it. Or you stick it in a corner to be forgotten until you need to remember it again. Either way, once it is finished you have a painting. Once your manuscript is finished you have a long road ahead before you have a book.

Self as a work in progress

I have come to see myself as a work in progress. Only I don't defend myself as fiercely as I do a painting. I don't put as much effort into myself as I would a book. Not because I'm not deserving, but because I'm afraid.

I experienced long-term trauma beginning at a very early age and continuing until today. The trauma has caused so much damage I fear I am irreparably broken. To the point of being unable to ever finish the work in progress that is me.

If I were a painting, each traumatic event or series of events would be like a knife slashing through the canvas. At this point in my life, the canvas is pretty much shredded and I am too afraid to look closely at it. I had already started painting when trauma started slashing.

I'm afraid to look too closely at the work in progress that is me. I'm afraid I am too damaged and cannot be finished and I am afraid I'm damaged, but not beyond repair and can be finished in equal measure. If I'm damaged beyond repair, I will forever be in the traumatized state. If I can be repaired, I will have to look at the trauma in close detail and begin the work of sewing shut the slashes in the canvas, and making progress on the painting, incorporating the scars into a thing of beauty.

On my bad days, I can barely bring myself to think about the trauma-slashed canvas, let alone look at it to see if it can be repaired. It hurts to see my nascent strokes of paint slashed through and shredded. On my bad days, I give up hope of ever-growing, healing, changing, and progressing.

On my good days, I believe I can repair the trauma-slashed canvas of my psyche. I believe I can make something out of myself. I believe I am still a work in progress. On my good days, I can see the fragile beauty in those fine, beginning brushstrokes. I can figure out what tools I will need to repair the canvas and begin painting again.

On my good days, I see myself as a work in progress.