Why painting walls is like writing drafts – and why it’s progress, not perfection, that matters
My husband Frank and I have bought a house together (for the very first time!) and been doing it up (also for the very first time!).
It’s a Victorian terrace which has needed a bit of love. In other words: we’ve* been stripping wallpaper, sanding and painting (and Zinssering – iykyk) walls, pulling up carpets and smashing open fireplaces. We’ve had the house fully rewired, our chimney newly flaunched, and we’ve learned what the word ‘flaunched’ means. We’ve put a log burner in one of the aforementioned smashed-open fireplaces, installed a new bathroom (during which our plumber discovered tiles upon tiles – literally), and created a new partition wall with pocket doors. Pocket doors!! I can tell you now that those long winter nights are going to fly by, mainly because I’ll just be standing by this archway, sliding doors in and out of it:
In short: the summer has been filled with a fascinating, time-consuming, fulfilling and at times slightly stressful project, and I’ve never used so much hand cream in my life.
The whole experience has also been an excellent reminder of an adage I’ve told myself (and fellow writers, and fellow recovering people-pleasers) numerous times: that ‘perfect is the enemy of good’. Or indeed, the enemy of done.
From trying to apply masking tape in a straight line on higgledy piggledy skirting boards to trying to paint those skirting boards and their higgledy piggledy walls neatly in contrasting colours, from ripping off weird cupboard doors – and bits of wallpaper in the process – to having a garden full of cardboard and floorboards covered in plaster… Put it this way: Frank and I have said “It doesn’t have to be perfect!” to each other a lot of times over the past 12 weeks.
The photo at the top of this piece is a glimpse of my fab new writing space on our attic landing, for example. But that West Side Story poster is hiding a multitude of wall sins, the lightbulb is bare, the curtain rail is hanging off, and if you look closely you’ll see the already pretty grotty wallpaper is smeary from me trying to wipe off marks yet only making them worse (classic main character behaviour!). In short: it’s very far from perfect. But a) who needs a perfect room when you’re looking at the sky/Ilkley Moor/a computer monitor and b) who needs perfection in the first place?
As I wrote in my post The Myth Of The ‘Undeniable’ Spec Script, the pursuit of perfection in writing – as in life! – stymies us. So don’t tie yourself up in knots trying to make your words perfect, remember that ‘writing is rewriting’, and just get something down on the page. Or as it’s occurred to me over recent days: think of your first draft as the primer coat of paint – the ‘mist coat’ (yes, I learned that word this summer too) – which especially doesn’t have to be perfect, because it’s merely the base for what’s to follow. Namely: applying the first coat of your chosen colour of paint (ie rewriting your first draft). After which you most likely apply a second coat of paint (ie write a third draft)… Although this is probably where the painting/writing analogy has to end, because if it continued according to the number of drafts you’d usually write, you’d end up with the walls getting closer and closer together with layers of paint, like that scene in Star Wars when they’re in the trash compactor.
Our home didn’t have to be perfect before we moved in. It doesn’t even need to be perfect now, or ever! It’s a work in progress – just like our writing, just like us – and it’s all about progress, not perfection. Like early drafts of a script or novel, it will improve; like early drafts, its current state will do for now (two little words which I find very helpful to add on the end of any sentence about a less than ideal situation).
So here I am, writing this in our attic landing space, some aspects of which may look a bit shonky for now. But with that view, a West Side Story poster on the wall, and my husband downstairs happily gazing at an endlessly fascinating new log burner, it’s all I need.
*When I say ‘we’ I do of course mean: the builder, roofer, plumber, electricians, joiners, masons, my sister and two nephews… and us. It takes a village. Or at least a small town with good word-of-mouth recommendations.
PS The lovely and brilliant short fiction writer Emily Devane and I are running Write Away – a writing workshop in the heart of beautiful Ilkley – on Saturday 8 November. If you’re interested in a whole morning devoted to your writing, full of inspiration, encouragement and practical tips (about writing, not renovating houses), find out more and book your spot here.
Leave a Reply