Murder.
The vet tried to kill my dog.
Raindrop loves pills. Well, she loves the cookies that deliver the drugs.
But this week, the vet gave me the wrong meds.
Conflict.
The receptionist recognized me as Raindrop’s dad. Said Raindrop was one of her favorite pups. I picked up the refill of the pills I ordered.
Something told me to check the bottle as I walked to my car. The label was correct.
Something told me to look at the pills. They were a different size.
Something told me to go back inside. But I hate conflict.
Avoidance.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the pills just looked different this time.
I looked at the number on the pill.
I was in the parking lot. I had to find my glasses. I had to find good light.
I had to Google the number on the pill. But I had a bad phone signal.
I needed the password for the vet’s WiFi.
Surely this was unnecessary. Surely the vet wouldn’t make this kind of mistake.
The real problem.
I was getting angry. The inconvenience. The danger. The threat. Poor Raindrop.
But I was also focused.
I had a clear task. A clear purpose.
That felt like a relief compared to what was going on at home: writer’s block.
I had a lot on my plate. Writing a new play. Editing a new novel. New Byrontology post. And I couldn’t make progress on anything. My computer felt like a steel door and I didn’t have the right key.
The pill drama was a welcome distraction. And, it turns out, the exact thing that would eventually clear my creative block.
The fight.
I went inside the vet’s office. Pointed out the problem.
Raindrop’s dad became Raindrop’s protector.
The pharmacist was horrified, apologetic.
Big explanations and sincere apologies, recognizing the danger, the gravity.
I also recognized imperfection.
When someone else is imperfect, I can forgive it.
When I’m imperfect, when my work is not perfect, not so much.
Good company.
I tell people all the time: “I love imperfect books. I love imperfect podcasts. I love imperfect Instagram posts.”
But the rule didn’t apply to me. My work always has to be polished, considered, complete. To earn the right to exist.
But nothing is really perfect.
Spielberg re-edited E.T. The Extra-terrestrial. George Lucas re-edited the original Star Wars. Almost every author and creator I know wishes they could go back and make changes to their published—and sometimes celebrated—works.
Next step.
Is my job to create or to be perfect?
Keep going. Edit later.
When it comes to that steel door, turns out I don’t need the perfect key. I just need to stop waiting for one.
TL;DR
The vet made a mistake.
I’m easy on others but hard on myself—and sometimes that causes creative paralysis.
My job is to create, not to be perfect.
NEW HERE?
IN THE NEXT BYRONTOLOGY
Five Things That Changed My Life This Month—including seeing a friend do something magical on stage. And I discovered my new favorite actor on TV—you should know about her, too—maybe you already do.
DIARY OF A SOMETIMES SAD GAY WRITER
In my diary entry this week, a lie came unraveled and made my latest novel feel more honest, enjoyable, and rich. Here’s what happened…
