I generally have this feeling that, even though there are many flaws in my life and my way of living, one day, I will resolve and eliminate all of those imperfect ways of doing things.
Somewhere in my future, there is a version of me with an optimal BMI who eats lots of kale and draws every single day and only drinks light beer and speaks fluent Spanish and allows other people to finish their thoughts and never bites his cuticles, and is totally in the present and can touch type.
I’m sure I can fix everything wrong with me one day and have no more problems ever.
But, of course, this is folly. Or at least not human.
Even if we could magically get our house completely in order, Mario Kondo-ed from basement to attic, life will still put its muddy boots on the sofa. I can sleep peacefully knowing I have reached Mailbox Zero and wake up to a deluge of new spam. I can check off everything on my to-do list and still have a gnawing sense that I missed something.
The life I lead now is just a shabby precursor to the Real Me that I will soon become as soon as I lose a couple of pounds and file my tax return.
Once I build all the proper habits, the cogs of my life will mesh seamlessly, and I will never need to worry again. I will be the perfect, true version of what I was meant to be, my potential fully realized.
But what if I never do? What if I remain a little grimy, ink-spattered and ragged at the seams?
What if I am destined to always be in development, never optimized, and always a few lessons away from the final exam?
Would that be so bad? What if I embrace my imperfection and revel in my shortcomings?
What if I stop striving and start just being flawed old me instead?
Your pal,
Danny
P.S. From the Department of Whatever: One of my many lovable qualities is my butter-fingered cloddishness. Last night, just as I was falling asleep, I thought, "y'know, it's been a long time since I broke a glass." This morning, ten minutes after I got up, I dropped Jenny's favorite mug and smashed it to pieces. One of those shards bore the manufacturer and item # on it and, by midmorning, my resourceful wife texted me to say she had found the mug on sale and bought us four new ones. She sent me a screen grab of the receipt with the words, "Good news!" I texted back, "You mean, 'Breaking news!'" She ignored my joke, as, undoubtedly, will you.
Each Friday, I send advice, ideas, stories and tips to 25K creative people like you. Author of 13 best-selling books on creativity. Founder of Sketchbook Skool w 50k+ students
Jenny and I have been watching a 4-part TV show called "Life After Life," based on a book we read several years ago by Kate Atkinson. The TV show is as wonderful and thought-provoking as the book. It's the story of a woman who dies again and again only to be reborn in the same time and place with a chance to do it all over again. Despite being killed by her own umbilical cord, by drowning, falling out of a window, a pandemic, a murderous husband, and many other slings and arrows, she returns...
When I was born, my name was Daniel Gregory. Before I was out of diapers, I was known as "Danny." Sometimes when my mother was trying to seduce me into doing something I was reluctant to do, she would call me "Dan." And of course, in any legal circumstance, going through passport control or signing up for a credit card, I was "Daniel." I had fantasies of being arrested because I'd called myself Danny, two bald scowling cops in a small room grilling me on why I was an impostor going by an...
When I was 16, I went to the Rhode Island School of Design summer program. I arrived as a pretty insufferable and opinionated know-it-all — no doubt the reason my mother was eager to let me run off to Providence for a couple of glorious months of art classes and unsupervised dorm life. One week, our design teacher gave us a tough assignment: use up an entire #2 pencil to create a single drawing. The next day, the classroom walls were lined with the results: sheets of paper grimy with...