She’s my sister AND my daughter!
A film reaches a certain age beyond which spoiler alerts aren’t necessary, right? I’m assuming Chinatown is one of those. In a pivotal scene involving Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway—it’s perhaps the scene of Dunaway’s career—her character reveals that her dead husband’s mistress is both her sister and her daughter.
For as long as I can remember, my drive to perfection has been with me like an overachieving sister. For just as long, I’ve watched my impulse to procrastinate grow like a daughter, spoiled-rotten. It’s taken thirty years for me to realize that the two are one and the same: she’s my sister and my daughter.
My hesitation to create is borne of a fear that what I create won’t be perfect.
I can do better than this, but only if I let myself let go of the idea that “better” equals “perfect”. I need to put more of myself out there without worrying what that might look like. The Chinatown metaphor, for instance, doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. But that’s okay; I’m going to click the publish button in a few seconds, regardless.
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