So I was working through my blog for today. Honing up a few things, just trying to make it perfect. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I am a perfectionist. You know that book I wrote? It took me about a year to write, but over a year and a half edit. Still, every time I read it I find errors.
I took 10 pages into my writers group this week; I didn't really have anything new to show. I figured I'd take something they hadn't seen before. I printed the part where Tom meets Tamera. I know that means nothing to you, but play along.
"Yeah! That part! Loved it Rob!"
Cool huh? Well anyway, I always look over stuff before I take it in, It's part of the OCD perfectionist thing. There were dozens of things that needed changing. Obvious crap. Crap that might as well have been highlighted by Klieg lights and air raid sirens. Crap my five year old niece would have caught and crayoned circles around if she were my editor. Crap I should have caught, but apparently was too unconscious to notice. It's a wonder they allow me a keyboard! Grammar issues, word choice problems, and even a few weak verbs. I felt so embarrassed and deflated. All this time, and it still needs work.
I took it in anyway, and everybody liked it. Well everybody but Billy, he wanted more depth to the historical aspect. Sorry Billy, but I'm glad you noticed. Well Pete liked it, but he wanted to see Tamara swept away by the violence; it seems she was too liberal for his tastes. Pete's also a police officer, so he holds some strong opinions on my setting. I do too. That unnecessary adverb describing the violence should be executed.
Everybody else thought it was sharp, funny, and chaotic. It was supposed to be chaotic (a distinguishing characteristic of the 92 LA riots), so I took that as a compliment. I wasn't sure they were qualified to call it "sharp," since they missed all the glaring errors, but I smiled and thanked them none the less. It's who I am.
I told you, I'm crazed; I need to fix things. I wish it stopped at my work, it's just that my work is the only thing that I can control.
People are a different matter.
At least so far as the control thing (unless one of you knows how to do that. Anybody? Aww c'mon! You're smart enough to read my blog, you're smart enough to control people. It's that simple. You know but you're just not telling me huh? I promise to use the power for good. c'mon! Please!), so far as the need to fix? Nope. That's the same.
I was talking with somebody in an email recently. I was explaining this problem I have. I call it the "White Knight Complex." If I see somebody, especially a damsel in distress, I feel the need to ride in and save the day. That would be great if everybody wanted to be saved. But more often than not, they'd really rather drag you into the dragons maw with them. They make an art of suffering, and want company.
It sucks. It's a lesson I never learned. I mean I know the words, I know how they fit together. I just don't comprehend them. It's like teaching a monkey English. He might be able to repeat it, but does he comprehend, "I'd like a Tabasco sandwich please." as something he'd probably rather not say? I taught my four year old sister the lyrics to "Cum on Feel the Noise." (No, she's not a monkey, we're moving the analogy along. Keep Up!) She sang it over and over again. It was cute, because she didn't know what the song meant. Yes, you can all come over and slap me now. Or, just mail your slap to the address on my profile page. For large slaps, you will need to pay extra postage, and I will not accept slaps from prison, or COD slaps.
You get my point. If not, now is a good time to go reread the last paragraph. Go ahead. I'm gonna move on, just catch up. This paragraph is fluff really. You can skim it when you get back. You'll probably want to focus on the next one though. It's a set up for what follows.
MyUnwife knows about this White Knight thing. So does anybody who really knows me. It can make me really annoying. Not like I needed additional tricks to do that, but yeah, it's there, just incase the rest of me hadn't made you grab for your coat yet. On the other hand, it also makes me caring, so I'm a little reticent to give it up. I'm empathetic, and sometimes it hurts, but that's ok. I'd rather feel hurt than numb.
I dwelled on this tonight, contrasting it to one of the most unlikely subjects: MyUnwife. If ever there were an anti-damsel pin-up girl, MyUnwife would be her. She'd be more likely to need a manicurist than a hero. If I were a villain, and my nefarious plan involved tying somebody to the railroad tracks, I'd go ahead and grab the Lone Ranger and Tonto before I grabbed her. It's just easier and I'm less likely to get killed grabbing them together than I am grabbing her alone.
Then again, that's what she'd have you believe. Few people know the little girl behind the mask. I do. She's strong in so many ways, and yet fragile in others. No, this isn't where I break down and beg her to come back. She's gone, that ain't happening. You'll probably see the resurrection of Humpty Dumpty before you see us restored again. And this White Knight isn't even prepared for that battle. I've passed my standard over to my page, patted him on the back and said, "good luck out there!"
No, but on the other hand I know that there are things within her, that everyone else may miss. Things that need to be fixed. (Quick! Hide me, because this is where she rips off my leg and beats me with it.) Not because they're broken, but because they're not whole. As complete as she is unto herself, there are things. Insecurities that camouflage the things that she doesn't share, that she should. And might, if she knew how.
I failed her.
I've failed others before so I'm kind of used to it. I know, I as I White Knight I really suck. My reference list is pretty short, but I'm trying. No, that doesn't make it better. A tenth place White Knight still leaves the crowd burning in their seats.
And no, she's not going to turn into a homeless crack-whore now that I'm gone. She'll do fine. I just know what lies beneath, and I hope she lets it out someday. I never wanted her to be perfect, I never wanted her to "live up to her potential." I just wanted her to be her, and to be happy. That was my fix.
The perfectionist in me has a hard time dealing with the knowledge that I won't be a part of that happening. Oh sure, There'll be somebody else—for both of us. Somebody who's more suited to our strengths. She'll find somebody who brings out the heart she guards so ferociously, and I'll find somebody who lets me wear the armor to bed.
Rowr!
Until then, I am my own worst critic again. What I need more than a critic is a good editor though. Somebody who knows what really needs work, and what's best left alone. So if you include an editing resume with your Rob slap, I'll look it over.
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