“You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you get better at it.”
That quote really resonated with me, but I think the last part of it isn’t quite as accurate as it could be. It should read “You don’t start out writing good stuff. You start out writing crap and thinking it’s good stuff, and then gradually you start writing good stuff that you think is crap.” Maybe there’s some ascended level where a few of the most distinguished authors of all time are hanging out, talking about their masterpieces, but I truly feel for the most part the better you get at something, the worse you think you are at it.
This happens to me with pretty much everything I do. I think it’s why I’m always so humble about my knowledge on things (is it humble to call yourself humble? Or am I know being humble about being humble? And does thought invalidate the humbleness… you know what, this is a feedback loop. I’m just gonna jump out of it now…).
I came straight to university out of high school, which I think is a mistake for anyone. Well, anyone that was raised like me. That is to say anyone who was raised in a stable household with loving parents in a privileged society and never really wanted for anything. When that person turns 18, they are in no way, shape, or form prepared to go out and live on their own and discipline themselves. They need a break first, to blow off steam and to learn how to be an adult.
So when I was in my first University English class I was treating it like a blow-off class from high school. I wasn’t doing the reading, I wasn’t paying attention in class. When the first essay was due, I whipped something up at the eleventh hour, pulling bullshit straight out of my ass, and handed it in, expecting an A, or a B+ at the worst. That’s what I always got in high school. I was this genius wunderkind who could do no wrong.
So when I got that essay back and it had a big C- on the last page, I was floored. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to be able to just skate through the class on easy mode. It was a really, really sobering moment for me that I still remember vividly.
Now, 8 years later, I’ve left school, worked a job I hated, travelled the world, spent time in utter solitude, and thought about the kind of person I want to be a lot more that I ever could have imagined at 18. I’m back in school now, and I’m taking a second level required English course. I have the same teacher I had back in 2011, and we just got back our first essay. I was ridiculously anxious as he was handing them back. I checked my Apple Watch and my heart rate, just sitting at the desk waiting for my essay, was 110. I was sure I’d gotten another C-.
A few things had changed though from that first essay in 2011. Granted, I wrote this one at the tenth hour instead of the eleventh, but hey, progress is progress, right? I actually had time to give it a copywriting pass (checking for grammar and spelling) and to give it a brief read over for content changes I might want to make. I did learn something by doing this though, and that is to print it out. Because I read it over twice on the computer, thought it was fine, and went to bed the night before it was due. The next morning I printed it off a mere 20 minutes before class, and was looking it over. I wasn’t even really reading it for editing, I was just scanning the page to make sure there were no printer glitches. I caught 2 spelling errors and found a sentence that just straight up didn’t connect with the rest of the essay at all. My heart plummeted and I thought this was going to be a disaster.
So, sitting at my desk listening to my heart pump, I finally hear my name called and stand up to get my essay. There’s quite a few remarks on the page, which I immediately take for a bad sign. I tried to pace myself and read the remarks before checking the grade, but that lasted all of 4 seconds before I flipped to the back page.
A-.
Holy shit, the relief and confusion I felt at that point was palpable. Relief because thank god, I’d gotten a good mark. Confusion because this was not an A worthy essay. I knew that. I want to say I still know that, but I have physical evidence to the contrary. I don’t understand how it got an A-. It wasn’t good. It was rushed, it was sloppy, it was basically just bad.
Right about then is when I realized that I’d grown up. I’d matured beyond that cocksure confidence of an 18 year old, fresh out of high school, and I was holding myself to higher standards than the professor was. I’m not trying to make an argument here that I’m in a good place in regards to my confidence. I think a certain amount of restrained cockiness can be a good thing. I’m plagued by anxieties about my performances, my actions, how I’m being perceived, etc. But that’s made me a better student and a better writer.
Ideally I’ll get to a point where I can appreciate my own work for what it is: good. God, even writing that sentence feels gross. But it must be good. I must be a good writer. I keep getting proof of that fact, even if I want to ignore it. But the writing is on the page, so to speak. And it says A-.