A hobby was not for enjoyment but a performance of perfection. I must be perfect before I can engage in something. I carried this belief with me from when I was a child.
It is utterly stupid and illogical. I did not know how I arrived at this conclusion. If someone had described this ludicrous notion and ascribed it to me, I would politely reply, “How interesting.” The conversation would turn to some other topics. I couldn’t see this was my practice. When I was little, I enjoyed writing during English composition classes. I gained a reputation for being good at it. I started feeling that I could not publish something until I was good. It was impossible for me to write a story. I couldn’t get it perfected. If I wrote a story, nobody ever read it. I only manage to get one story published. The main character was also a person who managed to be perfect without effort. I enjoyed drawing but when I discovered that my drawing teacher didn’t think I was good, I lost interest. I write discovered as if it was a fact but it was more like an inkling of a suspicion. Overnight, heated by the suspicion of imperfection, my interest evaporated. This strange notion extended to activities I didn’t enjoy – piano practice and school work. It’s one thing to know I have this illogical quirk. It’s quite another to persuade myself away from this usual thought process that I have to produce something perfect out of the time spent. Is a hobby to produce a perfect product or is it a journey of attaining perfection?