There is a pattern here somewhere. Every week there is a tournament I find myself searching my soul for answers to the great questions of my life.
Such as: Am I good enough?
I don’t mean, am I good enough to win. I’m not yet at the point where winning is all that realistic so my goal is to be the very best version of me I can be right now, and to keep improving. I’m training as hard as I know how, through cold/flu, soreness, stiffness, and so on, but it’s amazing really how it takes competition to push you past your limits.
So yeah, I compete. But that’s not what the soul-searching is about. It’s much more general than this.
See, I’m finally getting around to editing my novel, after sitting on it for about a year, and also – not particularly related, but there you go – I’m finally getting around to working for real on my home renovations. We started fixing up this old house back when I got pregnant with the Eldest, and did a fair bit of work over the following three or four years, but something about having three babies inside of four years plus buying a cottage that also needs extensive work slowed me down some. Oh, alright. The work has completely stopped. And even though both endeavours, novel-writing and renovations, are unrelated, they share a trait: I’ve been waiting for the longest time to do both because I was somehow convinced that I had to wait until I was in the right space (mentally, financially, head-space-ly) to get started on those jobs.
And recently I said to myself: Self, I said, you monumental moron, you gonna wait like that until your teeth fall out, or maybe get going? What are you, chicken?
I didn’t really like that question, and I especially didn’t like the answer. So I changed it. I decided I didn’t have time to wait much longer, that if I did wait much longer I’d never get to it (plus I’m sick of unfinished jobs), and so I should just get to it and get it done, however imperfectly.
I decided to convince myself that I was in the right space now, even though I’m not really. That the space I’m in right now has to be good enough. That people publish novels that suck more than mine, and live to tell the tale. That I can certainly stain my oak windows and make them look awesome. That if I can go and battle scary opponents at karate tournaments that meant I was no chicken and what was my excuse for not getting that novel done, huh?
So yes. I need to work at it and keep getting better. But I am good enough.