Arrested Development

A reflection on perfectionism, comparison, and making an attempt.

After a day of social malpractice, I come home and sit in anxious silence. I was looking forward to this, wasn’t I? Smelling like coffee, I remove my shoes by the door and settle on the floor. My feet ache. Wanting more, but uncertain of what that is, I open my laptop and start writing. I strive for perfection, but after some minutes, I lower my standards. Writing to impress leads to restless editing; these are beautiful words with zero substance. Mechanical writing becomes automatic. There, in that limbo space, is a clear stream of thought. Words become pages that lead to novels. Wait, this concept feels familiar…

Writing was something I wasn’t insecure about. Looming deadlines approached, and I would crush a high school level prompt in a couple of hours. The morning of the deadline, heading to homeroom, I would make my final edits. Soon after, I would skip to my guidance counselor’s office and use her printer. “I’m a good writer,” I thought, as I handed my underdeveloped essay. A week passes by and I receive my paper biddazzled with a red A+. Lacking any initiative and getting a perfect score was the only proof I needed: I was a great writer, actually. This habit followed me into my first two attempts at college. Without my overworked, sleep deprived English teacher, who’s going to raise my ego? I have to build up my confidence as a writer the hard way– by actually being better.

Classroom posters with apples, worms, and #2 pencils said it best. Varieties of “be yourself” terrorized the white, government-funded walls that watched us grow hair, height, and insecurities. Comparison came later, a guilty pleasure we secretly enjoyed, bastardizing our self-esteem. Disguised as self-improvement, some of us began to peacock. Fast forward to 2025, and somehow I can’t outgrow the need to impress my audience when I actually try. I do wonder: who exactly is my audience? I’ve been afraid to share my writing in fear of rejection. Cool kids read now. Cherry-picking buzzwords, just to toss them into half-baked ideas doesn’t get you a Pulitzer Prize. But then again, do I even want a Pulitzer Prize? Of course I do, everyone does, but that’s beside the point. I’ve recently started posting my pieces on Substack, fearfully waiting for the real writers to rip me a new one. Even at twenty-four, I’m still in fear of disapproval. I’m twenty-four. I’m a twenty-four year old working at a coffee shop. Comparing myself to established poets, screenwriters, and Carrie Bradshaw is futile. Growing older has dissipated my need for comparison. Instead, I sit on my floor thinking about the passage of time.

I never learned how to swim. Waves were just a concept then, and I didn’t conquer them until my twenties. Now it’s time to conquer something else: the fear of failure. A year ago, an old coworker exclaimed ,“Aren’t you afraid to look stupid?” Earnestly, I responded “no.” So there you go— half of the problem has been solved! Right? Yes and no. I can now admit I’m not good at anything, but I have always been scrappy enough to get by. Trying, something I’ve recently picked up, is the lifeboat you have in this life. Sitting on my floor, after a nightmare shift at Starbucks, I feel confident in my newfound humility to try. After all, you don’t become a real writer through participation points. Maybe this time next year I’ll be a published author with a real typewriter. Until then, my MacBook will do.