Good enough. Mostly. Sometimes.

 

I should be carrying on with the copyedits for SHADOWS which are at this point overdue . . . I’ll finish tomorrow, really I will.  But by this stage of a book I can’t frelling focus on those frelling words any more* and I don’t think that right this minute I can stand to handle the pages any more tonight . . . which is my own fault for needing hard copy, but if I were doing it only on screen I’d have pixelated eyes by now as well as an advanced case of Technicolor heebie-jeebies.  As it is the heebie-jeebies are displaying quite a tactful, restrained palette of peach to salmon to rust with occasional highlights of green. . . .

I’m raving.

Part of the problem is that I’d be a perfectionist if I could . . . but I can’t.  My brain won’t hold that sharp an edge, however energetically you hone the soggy thing.  So you have to go for good enough.  What you hope is good enough.  What, some of the time, you believe is good enough.  Is sometimes even . . . plain unmodified good.

But not while you’re dealing with copyedits.

But good enough is something I’ve been thinking about since last night’s blog—since Bratsche’s first harp post and my Monday singing lesson.  I think good enough is sometimes really hard to define.

I’m a good enough dog owner.  My three hellcritters have daily walks—walks plural—a warm place to sleep, the almost constant presence of the hellgoddess (which is supposed to be a good thing in dog pantheon terms) and tasty sustaining food (when they eat it).  They are not trained to a high standard**, especially not the recent addition to the family***, but they have some concept of what training is, and they’re nice to have around (mostly).  I’ll share a sofa with them any time.  They’re all bonkers, of course, but I pretty sure they’d be bonkers anyway, although a more dedicated trainer might have reshaped the bonkersness more than I have done.

When I was still riding, I was a good enough rider for a certain kind of horse;  a horse I suited I could groom and exercise and have (mutual) fun with, and even bring on a little in its training, possibly with the help of a trainer for me.  I’m a good enough cook.†  I’m even—marginally—a good enough bell ringer, since there’s a shortage of any kind of ringer in this area, and bells and the upkeep of bells still exist in exchange for calling Christians to church services.  I’ve rung a lot of services where I as an available pair of hands was absolutely good enough.

But the line about good enough is always blurry, and sometimes it’s so blurry it’s just a smudge.  Would those horses whose training I contributed to have done better with a better rider?  Probably.  I’m a good enough cook if you like brownies and roast chicken—not so much if you want Beef Wellington and Baked Alaska.  And I’m not a good enough ringer to be invited to ring quarter peals any more often than some patient teacher type can bear to organise.

The farther you go over a different line into territory that might be considered art, I think the concept of good enough gets harder and harder to define—or possibly to accept.  As long as you’re tending to a critter’s basic needs—and that includes comfort and contentment, not just food and shelter from the weather—good enough is fairly straightforward.  Brownies and roast chicken hit the spot, even if they’re not glamorous.††  And you don’t have to be able to ring Snorkel Upstage Flugelhorn Major to tell people to get their shoes on and stop dozing over their coffee.

I don’t know what good enough singing or piano-, harp-, violin- or flugelhorn playing is.  I think music does fulfil a basic human need, but I’m not sure how to describe it.  I’m really enjoying the conversation going on in the forum right now, beginning with the response to Bratsche’s first harp post and gaining momentum last night after my Monday-singing-lesson-aroused response to one of Bratsche’s comments.  I hope you’ll keep talking.  Please.†††  I think I’m learning something.

* * *

* Except for those occasional, flaying moments when you realise THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER MAKES NO SENSE/CONTRADICTS WHAT YOU SAID IN CHAPTER TWELVE/UNDERMINES THE ENTIRE PLOT IN A SUBTLE WAY THAT NONE OF YOUR READERS PICKED UP WHEN YOU STILL HAD ENOUGH BRAIN LEFT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT/IS GENERALLY SENSATIONALLY, PRODIGIOUSLY, SUPERABUNDANTLY STUPID . . . etc.  But you’re frelling lunchmeat about this book by now, and you just have to hope none of your other readers will notice either, because any significant change you tried to make now would probably turn out to be like adding chopped liver to the strawberry shortcake.  Unwise.   This is, however, when you start reading the job ads for openings for shelf restockers and file clerks.  I didn’t know they still had file clerks.  Maybe only in small backward Hampshire villages.

** ::falls down laughing::

*** ::injures herself falling down laughing::

† When in doubt, add chocolate.

†† Although I feel this depends on your brownie recipe.  Brownies can be very glamorous.

††† Not only because I can probably get another comment post out of what’s been said so far. . . .