Nebulous undefined ideas are too perfect

If you’re anything like me you’ve likely felt massive excitement at the idea of starting a new thing. Maybe it’s a project, a hobby, or some idea that you can’t put down. It’s novel, uncertain, and there’s so much possibility. In fact, the possibility is off the charts. This thing could change the world. Of course it could, the idea in your mind hasn’t met reality.

Depending on where you’re at in life, and what kind of processes you have in place, you may dive right into the idea. Perhaps you work on it nonstop, stay up late tinkering, and overall just can’t get put it down. At some point you’ll start to add some definition and try to bring shape to the idea.

Then, all too often, you abandon the thing right before shipping.

The reality of its existence has eclipsed the unlimited possibility in your mind.

Back in college I spent a lot more time in art and illustration and often faced this conundrum. The gap between the nebulous undefied artistic image in my mind and my ability to define it was too great.

Sometimes I could overcome the gap and uncertainty and create despite my reservations. But often times I just stopped. And that’s so unfortunate. Looking back I’d much rather see years of attempts, tests, failed projects, failed ideas, but ideas nonetheless—shipped in some manner.

That’s not to mean we shouldn’t improve, shouldn’t try to grow and continue learning. But too often we’re afraid of sharing, afraid of shipping. Every child is an artist, until it’s squeezed out of them. They’re graded on art by a well meaning teacher focused on some crazy idea of technical perfection and missing out on the idea of art as a whole. This was a favorite topic of my art college professor, one that’s stuck with me my entire adult life—we all exist to create art, for most of us it’s been shamed out of existence, and what a sad thing that is.

So too often we stop. To leave the idea in the neublous, uncertain, but perfect, state in our minds means we’re not offering the world a chance to see that imperfect thing that could be. Instead we’re often afraid to define it, afraid to bring it down from the clouds, afraid that our baby will be ugly and we’ll be laughed at.

This exact feeling comes into play with something like writing. Am I proud of everything I write? Not in the specific necessarily, but in the whole absolutely. I write to test out ideas, to improve how I think, and to try and encourage others and share what I’ve learned from them.

What I wrote a decade ago—shoot what I wrote a year ago or even yesterday—is often challenging to read. It doesn’t come across how I intended. It’s messy, imperfect, and flawed. It’s cringy. But it’s also true, true to what I meant at the time, and true to my attempts to create and share and push ideas to the world.

So when I see someone creating art I encourage them. Full stop. I’m proud of them for creating, for trying, for risking, for taking the perfect thing in their head and finding a messy means of conveying it to me. That’s a gift.

My job then, as the recipient of said art, is to thank them, and ensure that whatever words I share will encourage them to keep going, keep trying, keep creating.