Every once in a while, I just get paralyzed. Or paralysed. (I’ve been in America for a month, and I can’t decide how I want to spell things right now.)
And that brings me to how I’ve been in America for a month. And how, a few weeks ago, I was sitting in a coffee shop in Raleigh, North Carolina, talking to my friend Amaris about photography.
“I have a confession to make,” I said. “I haven’t taken a picture in a while. Because I took a break when I had Koa and the longer it went on, the more afraid I got that I’d forgotten, that I couldn’t do it anymore, that I’d lost what little ground I’d gained.”
“I hate to break this to you,” she said. “But there is no way around this other than to pick up your camera.”
Amaris was right. (She often is.) When I’m paralysed (I’m gonna go with the ‘s’ for a minute.) by the need for perfection – by the fear that what I create won’t be exactly what I want to create – I end up not creating anything.
That’s why I got my camera out when I got back to my parents’ house from the coffee shop that day. I took some pictures of Koa in the grass. I took some pictures of my mom’s grapevine, and of the horses, and of the shade tree in the backyard.
Fear is a thief, and it will steal your potential to become the artist you were created to be.
Perfectionism will kill your art.