I have started this post several times and deleted it. I am not, as you might have guessed, a world class writer, and I have yet to be perfectly satisfied with what it is I've written for the world to see. The problem is not that I am a perfectionist, per se, just that I can't help but hold myself to the standards set by other people. My talents seem small, if that makes sense.
The problem is that it doesn't just pertain to writing. I am beginning to fret the making of this project before I've cut a single piece of fabric. I am intimidated by the ones who are a little better than me at noticing the drape of a piece of cloth, or who are determined to recreate an entire historical costume by hand without using modern tools, or who have such a flair for decoration and color that my efforts look like a colorblind righthanded kindergartener using lefthanded scissors made them. I envy those people, and I admire them, and I hate them. I feel stifled and useless in their presence. Usually I just go and eat some cookies and the feeling goes away, but the longer I wait for the right pattern to come in the mail, the more I'm allowed to second-guess my abilities. I am just waiting for the moment when the scissors slip and oops, there goes the pleated train.
I persevere, tho, because I have already told so many people about this stupid costume, and about this stupid blog, and the natives grow restless and beat drums. I have no desire to end up in a big stew of told-you-so.
May be I should just be a pirate for Halloween instead.
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