My pride and joy throughout my tenth grade year was my compilation of memoirs which I wrote for my English 10 class. It spoke of many topics, from childhood games to the life summary of my grandfather to my relationship with my mother, but the part which I adored most, ironically enough, was its foreword. It established that I was an amateur of all things, writing in particular. “The connotations of the word, however, have been criminally warped, and the modern definition is a travesty of the noun's true meaning. Amateur comes from the word ‘amātor’ from Latin, or ‘lover’. One who loves. An amateur is one who creates, performs, indulges, not for the expectation of advancement or glory, but solely for the love of it. One who is passionate for the sake of passion, who loves for the sake of love. In my humble and amateur opinion, it is a beautiful thing to be. … I revel in my passionate mediocrity” (Sidney, 1).

I’ve been thinking about this concept a great deal -- or rather, my thoughts have been about this a great deal, far more than I’d like them to be. Despite my previous adoration for the term, I recently question whether I meet the requirements for this label of which I speak so frequently. Echoes of “amateur” have been protruding into my usual stream of continuous ideas. They break its flow akin to a wide stone being placed in a river - the river adapts, still pushing on, only less efficiently and with less momentum. The stone cannot be eroded quickly, no matter how desperately and perseveringly the river flows on, and the river is greatly vexed by its new hindrance.

I assumed as much before due to my passion for the craft. I adore writing; truly, I do. This essay isn’t about my absence of love and passion for writing, but rather, its priority over a prominent and ever-present flaw of mine, one which clashes with the very definition of being an ameteur: Perfectionism. This piece you’re reading now is the polished version of the last of five first drafts for the school assignment this essay is written for. Each draft has been on vastly different topics, and each written in approximately one afternoon or evening, give or take a few hours. Only a single draft was required to be written. Each may very well have provided a B+ or higher. Despite this, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I were to let my final assignment in Essay Writing be defined (in my own view) as mediocre.

I am supposed to submit this essay to a literary magazine as a part of my grade. I spend my evenings reading countless winning essays or works of poetry for magazines recommended by my teacher to submit to. I breathe in their fresh prose and craftsmanship of language, and I am filled with respect for their talent and ability as my cheeks burn, knowing that this is the bar to reach for my submission. The notion comes to me that I cannot picture myself writing something like this. The word surfaces: amateur. My chest is heavy.

Midnight calls with my sister-in-spirit, Audrey Q, are a common occurrence (concerningly so for my sleep schedule). She is attending a college specializing in visual and literary art. Every teacher has told her that she should become a writer. She’s starting to believe it herself after five years. She tells me about her newest romance novel or dystopian universe idea, one of dozens. I feel as if I’m Salieri in Amadeus (1984) upon finding his rival’s (Wolfgang Mozart’s) unpublished creations, flipping through composition after composition, each a work of the heavens, each more humbly perfect than the last. I marvel in her talents whilst simultaneously knowing I would never have thought of that story idea on my own. It surfaces: amateur. The feeling seeps into me again.

However, this feeling has not been constant. Otherwise, this essay would be about how I’ve come to terms with these thoughts and feelings by now. I am not sure whether I should believe it anymore, but I was told continuously throughout my growing years that I was a prodigy in all senses. Phrases like “gifted” and “beyond his years” and “mature for his age” were placed upon me like badges of accomplishment for simply going through the motions, doing as I desired. My greatness came naturally, I was told. I was skilled in simply being, despite only being seven.

My 10th grade English teacher reads the same memoir which this essay’s first paragraph’s quotation is derived from. She recommends submitting my work to a writing competition for a cash award. She, about to retire and holding the knowledge of an entire teaching career, is impressed by me. 6 months later, my advisor John, a man whom I admire and aspire to be in the footsteps of, tells me that the draft for a different descriptive essay I sent him this fall was extraordinary, and that my descriptions and transitions were clean and vivid. I smile in humble pride and gratitude for his kind words. My father reads my psychology essay on the topic of fear and why humans are obsessed with horror, and he gives high praise to its connection to manipulation in the political atmosphere. I have never gotten a poor grade in English (and I kindly ask you not to inquire about my other subjects). It is, according to all who have read my writing, my strong suit, my forte, etc, etc. I am told this is what I am good at. I, being me, take this as “I must be the best, else I am worth nothing. If I am not perfect, I have failed.”

I could not picture those aforementioned first drafts receiving the same kind of praise. I did not pour in the same passion to them as my previous works - I did not leave anywhere in my writing to place the passion. Every time I went to revise, I near-instantaneously felt drained from how much work I would have to put in to make it decent. It contained 1900 words, meeting my criteria for length, but these words meant nothing. They were not utilizations of language. They were not prose. They were a one-sided conversation. They were me chatting and rambling to myself. I did not see the potential in these works, and I did not know how I could make them better, and so I didn’t. I have been told that I am better than these drafts, and so I write and write and pour myself on the page until all I am is ink and parchment and my mouth is leaking every revised and re-revised thought that may save me from being my greatest fear: less than what I could be.

This does not seem -- to me, at least -- to be amateuristic at its face. I do not see this determination and drive to be the best writer possible (as myself or as a human being), and think that its purpose is my own ardent love of the craft of language. I think that I write as I feel that I must, that it is my purpose to. This is what I am good at, I’m told, so I must perfect my capabilities and continuously utilize what talents I’ve been given. I must be the absolute best version of what I can be; anything else would be an insult to the gifts I’ve been bestowed and to all who called them gifts. Do I still believe my year-ago self? Do I do this, most of all, for the love of it?

I look slightly deeper, and I say “of course you do. Who do you take you for?” A drive for perfection may contrast with the recreational aspect slightly, but I wouldn’t have written those drafts if I didn’t adore writing so ardently as to attempt those drafts without any obligation to. I wouldn’t place myself on the page that many times and for that long if I did not have something in me that loved doing so, even if there was a part of me who also needed to do so.

This outline and even the first paragraph were not even started for an assignment. This, originally, was a 700-word work that I churned out on my only free period in a state of fixation, choosing to indulge in my train of thought as opposed to completing my homework for that evening. I wrote it recreationally, not for any class or other person; it was simply to get my thoughts on a page, as it was easier to comprehend them when I could read and reread them. Would I have poured my vulnerable state onto a page for potentially nobody but me to see if I did not love to do so? Does one commit to a way of life voluntarily, even and especially when it burdens them somehow, if it does not give them joy or a means of obtaining some kind of peace?

I could have submitted any of those four drafts, but here I sit, writing one I can be at least somewhat happy with. I put in far too much effort and far too many hours to make something that I could be proud of. I wrote and write for the sake of writing. If this piece doesn’t tell me that I’m an amateur, I don’t know what possibly could. I am, somehow, miraculously, an amateuristic perfectionist.

I hope that I am not the only one who lives through their works, whose passions nestle themselves in their labor. I hope I am not the only one who breathes through what they can complete. I hope that I am not the only one who doesn’t only indulge in their passions because it brings them joy, but because they do not know how they would survive if they lived any way else. 

I hope that this touches another who lives the same way I do. I hope that I will eventually be good enough for myself. I hope that all of this is worth more than the grade I would’ve gotten from another draft.