On superlatives

Today as I was walking back from lunch, I ran into a friend who inquired about the progress of my book. I was able to give a favorable report with less dishonesty than usual, and he of course proceeded to ask when it will be presented to the public. I told him by graduation, he expressed eagerness to read it, I expressed thanks for his interest, and we went our ways.

Unfortunately, as so many casual encounters do, it got me thinking. The book, story, novella, whatever it is growing up to be, will indeed be finished by May... under some definition of 'finished.' Already I have had to cut back on my goals for the project, making it two parts instead of three. This morning I was faced again with the stark realization that in no way, except by adding eight or nine hours to the length of each day, am I going to be able to do the kind of exhaustive revision I had intended to do. I will have to be content with presenting something that looks like a story, is coherent, and is at least moderately entertaining.

That will do for academic purposes-- and it is, after all, the academic purposes that impose the deadline. If I ever try to publish it, which I would still like to do, I will spend a good deal more time on it. I have resigned myself to the fact that it will be declared finished, as far as my school is concerned, long before I have finished with it. But that leaves hanging the difficult question of friends reading it.

I will let my friends read it, of course. At least a few of them would be highly disappointed if I didn't. But here perfectionism, my iron-handed opponent, begins to speak. I managed to quench him several years ago with regard to academic work-- otherwise I would never have turned anything in. And so I will feel comfortable handing the story in to my professor in its polished but imperfect state. But I still hate the thought of presenting anything to my friends which does not represent the height of my vision.

Why? Because I want them, and everybody else, to see the best I can do. Most of all, I don't want them to see my work in an incomplete state and think it is the best I can do. I want to dazzle, to astonish, to make everybody cry, "We had no idea you could do such incredible work!" I believe, with all the hubris I was born with, that I am capable of doing this. And I don't want to present to the public any work which falls short of that ideal.

But then I thought, What, after all, is the best I can do? If I write something that dazzles and astounds, does that mean I have reached the height of my capability? If I write something excellent, could I not yet write something better than that? "Do your best," applied to my writing, suddenly loses all sense, for I will never know when I have done my best. At least, I pray I will not. If I write a dozen novels in my lifetime, doubtless critics will declare one or two of them to be my best, and that is all well and good. But God forbid that I should ever look at a work of mine and say, "That is the best I am capable of." As long as I continue writing, I mean to continue reaching for new heights of excellence.

So it appears, after all, that my ambition to present my friends with the best I can do is futile. There is no "best I can do." There is only the best I have done. And that "best I have done" will, please God, continue to grow better as long as I live.