A Past of Imperfections
A Past of Imperfections
100 Things #024 - Show Your Work
As we approach one of the first major milestones in this project (#025!!!) I just wanted to say thank you to anyone who’s been supporting this newsletter/blog thing of mine for any period of time!
Whether this is your twenty-fourth, your tenth, or even just your first time reading something from 100 Things To Do Before The Sun Explodes, thank you for the support and for taking the time out of your day to give me your attention.
It goes a long way. Oh, and, as always, if you know anyone who would enjoy adding this quick read to their weekly routine, send this their way! We’re very close to 500 reads per month and I think that would be a cool milestone to hit by the end of May!
Thanks again! And on with the show.
Remember in math class, when your teacher would request that students show their work on their homework and tests and the whole room would collectively groan? We were a bit dramatic, sure, but I still understand the sentiment.
Showing your work isn’t often sexy.
You can see all of the errors and missteps that happened along the way, and it often slows down one’s work speed. It’s hard to imagine in day-to-day life how something that we all disregarded as “an annoying extra step” in elementary school could have any real-world practical effects after graduation.
But as usual, teachers tend to have a method to their madness.
Lately, I’ve been going back through some short stories and old blog posts that I’ve written over the years (most of which have not been accessible to the public, until recently!) and it’s been a nice experience getting to see some of my old writing for what it was.
I’ve always been a fan of the idea of practicing in public, and I’ve dabbled some in putting work out in the past, but I often end up hiding, archiving, or deleting whatever doesn’t meet my changing standards about a year later.
It’s a bad habit that I’ve worked to move past, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that someone’s first impression of you might be the subpar story you wrote for a writing contest as a teenager.
Yet there really are a number of reasons why it would actually benefit someone to keep that early work visible for years to come.
For one, it encourages us to live with imperfection.
As much as we may wish we could, it’s impossible to curate everyone’s perception of you. There are some efforts that can be taken for sure, but it is not a game that can be won per se.
So why not embrace the imperfection and put your journey on display?
These ideas are reinforced by the guide/guru principle, which dictates that individuals would often do well to see themselves more as a guide, helping those just a few steps behind, rather than a guru, attempting to help all those who come after them. By developing a catalogue of work spanning your entire career, you create a sort of roadmap that an onlooker may be able to benefit and learn from.
As a beginner, to only see finished, polished, pristine works out in the world, it can sometimes be difficult to figure out where to start, or where to put energy, or what progress might look like.
Showing the imperfections along the way only tends to make you feel more approachable and more real.
The same principles can be found in the art of “Kintsugi,” which roughly translates to "golden joinery." This Japanese technique repairs the cracks in pottery with a special lacquer mixed with powdered metals, often gold, to turn what was once an imperfection into a masterpiece.
To me, this is the most ornate and beautiful form of showing work there is. Imperfections become art and the unintentional is transformed.
When looking back on your own progress in whatever field you find yourself in, try to see mistakes along the way as a chance to learn, teach, or make something new.
And keep in mind, while playing the infinite game, there will always be room to grow.
I’ll leave you here with a few journaling prompts for those who want to do a bit of guided thinking around this topic:
Write about a time when you felt embarrassed or insecure about a piece of work you created. How did you handle those feelings at the time? How do you view that work now?
How do you feel about the idea of "practicing in public"? Write about an instance where you shared something imperfect with others. What was the response, and how did it affect you?
Think about a piece of work or a project you initially saw as a failure. Reflect on how you could reinterpret or transform it into something valuable or beautiful, like Kintsugi.
Thanks for reading! If you have any thoughts, I’d love to hear them in the comments or send me an email.
For now, have a good week, and I’ll see you at 100.