Have you ever quit something because you were embarrassed?
I have.
I can remember times with music when I forgot the words to a song I was singing and felt humiliated. It might not have even been a performance. It could have been practice.
But I was such a perfectionist that if I didn’t do something superbly, if I wasn’t hitting home runs, I took that as a sign that maybe I should quit.
I wasn’t what I dreamed about being.
I wasn’t perfect right out of the gate.
So maybe I wasn’t cut out for it.
It’s happened a number of times with music. Harmonizing didn’t come easily. I’d forget lyrics. I’d flub something while I was playing.
Really silly, ridiculous reasons to quit when I look back on them now.
Because that’s what practice is for.
That’s what rehearsal is for.
That’s what applying yourself and honing a craft is all about.
What if you gave yourself permission to be imperfect?
That question was recently asked of me, and I started thinking about what that would actually look like.
Then I realized: You’re watching me do it.
Every time I get on social media, I’m giving myself permission to be imperfect.
I don’t fancy myself particularly good at any of this. I don’t think I’m particularly gifted or great at it right now.
But I’m showing you, and showing myself, in real time what it looks like to do something and not be great at it.
Most people get to practice behind the scenes. They can work on something quietly until they feel like they’re ready to show it to the world.
I’m doing this two or three times a day.
And I hope someday somebody can look back and say, “He’s improving. He’s getting better. He’s finding his way. He’s figuring out his voice.”
That’s what this looks like.
You’re allowed to be adequate
Give yourself permission to not be great at something.
To not be perfect.
To be adequate.
Maybe even to be bad.
Because if you love it and you want to do it, keep doing it.
Forget the masses. Do it for yourself.
That’s what I’m doing.
I’m going to pick up instruments again. I’m going to start strumming again. Playing again. Singing again. Writing again.
These are things I’ve put aside, and now they’re back in the queue.
And I’m having the time of my life.
If I sound a little pitchy, it’s all right.
If somebody tells me, as somebody actually has, “Don’t give up your day job, Mark,” it’s OK.
And when I sell a million records because I’m killing it, I’ll remember what you said.
Kidding.
Mostly.
The point is, I’m giving myself permission to not be perfect.
You should, too.