the wrong crayon
Featured Post #31
Featured Posts are hand-picked to showcase the excellent work our community members are doing. In keeping with SmallStack’s mission to lift up small publications, all Featured Post authors have fewer than 500 subscribers. Think of it like staff picks at your favorite indie bookstore.
Today’s Featured Post is by Kate Horowitz, author of small magic, and was nominated by SmallStack community member Elinor Abbott. Elinor writes:
Kate's exploration of her own life through an extraordinarily compassionate lens is a reminder for me to be tender to myself.
A SmallStack Featured Post
the wrong crayon
the magic and mystery of a C minus
By Kate Horowitz
“Kathryn has no standards.”
This was my kindergarten teacher, addressing my mother.
“The other children will draw pictures when I prompt them, but Kathryn doesn’t even try. She just leaves the paper blank.”
My mother bristled. “Kathryn’s standards are so high that she’s terrified of choosing the wrong crayon.”
*
When and why did I begin believing that I only deserved to take up space if I was perfect? Why do I demand so much more from myself than I do everyone else? How much of my life has been sacrificed to this drive for immaculacy? When will I understand that there’s no such thing as a correct crayon?
*
One day last year, I noticed a pattern: other people were a lot happier with my work than I was. (I know how facepalm-obvious this sounds. Bear with me.) The essay, article, or report that felt like a C- to me was an A+ to everyone else. My idea of A+ work was probably actually closer to an A++++++, which does not exist and is therefore impossible to achieve.
And when I demanded A++++++ work from myself, did I do better? Did I do more? Did I do it at all? No. I froze, convinced that I’d pick the wrong crayon and ruin everything. The night before a major project was due, my page was consistently still blank.
I went over to my art supplies and grabbed a handful of markers. I sketched the message in fast, scribbly strokes, and taped it to the wall directly across from my workspace.
C- says let’s experiment and see what happens.
C- says can we play?
C- says mistakes are how we learn.
C- says you don’t need to earn your place here. you are already enough.
*
A few weeks ago I got an idea for a silly poetry comic. As I was writing the concept down, I realized it was a great opportunity to practice aiming for a C-.
I told myself that I wouldn’t spend more than 2 hours on the comic, and that I wouldn’t try to make it look like a professional did it, because I’m not a professional (and also I was doing this for fun, and self-judgment…isn’t fun?).
Drawing the comic kept me occupied through my daily illness crash. By the time I was able to get up to make dinner, I had a goofy, sloppy, amateur-looking, C- comic that was bright and colorful and made me laugh.
I shared the comic on Instagram and, amazingly, no one said “This is bad, and you are a waste of oxygen.” In fact, people seemed to like it. And if they hadn’t, I still would have been ok.
Aiming for a C- not only allowed me to make something I wouldn’t have made otherwise. It also gave me a joyful, stress-relieving focus during a difficult moment. It created a field in which to play—and in playing, I learned. I got to practice color, perspective, and shading, all of which are difficult for me because I’ve been too scared of failing to even attempt them. I got to share something silly with people I like. I made something imperfect—as all things are!—and survived.
*
I’ve been preaching the gospel of C- to loved ones. After contemplating the idea for a few minutes, one brilliant and high-achieving friend said, slowly, with astonishment and a little bit of heartbreak in her voice, “A C- student is…still lovable.”
I hadn’t even thought of it in those terms, but yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes.
An A+ student is no more deserving of love (or crayons, or paper, or space, or life) than anyone else. When I look at a blue jay, I don’t think, If that bird doesn’t do backflips, she doesn’t deserve to exist. I think, Oh wow! A bird! The jay is alive, and she is here, and this is enough.
Who am I, and how could I be so singularly wretched, that the same is not true of me?
*
Bless the tiny child who believed she had to do the impossible. Bless my 40-year-old self, just beginning to reconsider. Bless the blue jay, the shitty comics, the box of all-wrong/all-right crayons. Bless the determined little creature inside me, weird and wonderful, just as she is.
About the author
Kate Horowitz is an autistic and disabled writer, arter, and sea hag in Maine, USA. A passionate lover of minute details, obscure marvels, and quiet victories, Kate noticed her own irritation with the grandiosity of popular advice for writers and other creative people. She wanted a place to have honest conversations about how hard it is to survive and make art, particularly for chronically ill, disabled, and neurodivergent people, as well as those in recovery from trauma or addiction. She created her newsletter as a way to celebrate and share the things that help—no matter how small.
small magic is a monthly-ish newsletter about writing, creating, recovering, and existing. (You know. The little things.)
Join the conversation
Did you enjoy this Featured Post as much as we did? Leave a comment and let the author know what you loved most!
Stay tuned for more Featured Posts!
To showcase the breadth and depth of talent in the SmallStack community and celebrate the launch of the SmallStack Library, we release a different Featured Post every Friday. Do you have a favorite small publication you’d like to nominate? Let us know, and it might appear on a future Featured Post Friday!
 | A guest post by
|
Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and giving the C- approach a try. The little kid in me is truly astonished to hear so many other people feeling the same way. She would be so glad to meet you all.
Oh how I loved this post and how it relates to writers. I'm an author and after several books still have doubts all the time, but I also coach writers and have for years and they can sometimes be paralyzed by the need for perfection. They won't write because of the fear, or they will write and revise FOREVER and I mean forever as they grow unhappier. I have crayons and colored pencils right next to my writing desk and you've inspired me to scribble and explore. Thank you.