Wednesday, October 11, 2017 // The Statement
7B
Copy That: Beauty in disorder
I
n fifth-grade art
class, we learned
about
Jackson
Pollock,
an
artist known for abstract
expressionism. He became
famous for dripping paint
onto
canvases,
flicking
and throwing and pouring
colors all over the place in
the name of art. Some of my
classmates were skeptical,
because, after all, to our
10-year-old
selves,
the
Pollock replications we’d
just stained our clothes
painting
looked
eerily
similar to the famous ones
in the museums. I, on the
other hand, was sold. As
an artistically challenged,
semi-introverted
fifth
grader, I had found an
uncanny resonance with
the disorder of Pollock’s
work. For the first time in
my life, I felt as though my
thoughts could be expressed
on paper.
Here’s the thing: I am not
an organized person, but I
am a perfectionist.
The
paradox
of
this
does not fall upon blind
eyes. The way I see the
world
falls
somewhere
between inherent tedium
and absolute entropy, and
that is how it’s always been.
I never intend to be the
exemplar of disaster, but I
often am. I fill my calendar
with plans, flooding my life
with commitments I can’t
keep. I stumble into unmade
beds at night, insistent that,
this time, I’ll be complacent
in the morning. I keep my
car pristine but lose my keys
religiously. I open a fresh
notebook with the intention
of planning and end up with
pages of scratched words
and half-baked ideas. I’m
quick to apologize and slow
to forgive. I, while well-
meaning, fall victim to my
inner chaos, time and time
again.
Growing
up,
this
contradiction lent itself to
extreme bouts of premature
writer’s block and, in turn,
a thorough fear of writing.
I could not find a way to
organize my thoughts into
words, sentences and stories.
I felt constrained by the way
I was taught to write — by
the rules, clear and concise.
I feared that, much like
myself, my writing would be
messy and improper. Most
of all, I was afraid of being
misunderstood. Words were
so meaningful, and, in turn,
so terrifying.
After years of frustration
over unfinished sentences,
unmade beds and late nights
looking for lost keys, the
right words or both, I have
come to accept that we, as
writers and people, are not
linear, and we sure as hell
aren’t perfect.
This
may
seem
odd
coming from a copy editor.
I, after all, dedicate hours of
my week to proofreading and
correcting
other
people’s
mistakes. The copy editor,
by definition, is a curator
of precision. We at the
copy desk adhere to strict
grammatical guidelines and
seek to streamline the news
we share with the clarity
and concision that scared me
so long ago. We are detail-
oriented
and
particular,
and, as a child, I think the
newsroom of The Michigan
Daily might have scared
the crap out of me.
But the truth is, I don’t
edit for perfection. I don’t
write simply to organize
my
thoughts.
I
don’t
proofread solely to correct
error
or
fact-check
to
streamline the world.
I do these things because
I believe in the value of
the process; in what we
learn
about
ourselves
and the world when we
challenge
ourselves
not
to fear the chaos, but to
create something out of it,
whatever that may be.
Years ago I sat with a
pencil in hand, positive
that to follow the rules
was to create something
meaningful. But now I
think that meaning can
derive from the opposite:
pushing
against
the
rules, throwing paint on
the canvas and letting it
become art.
by Emily Stillman, Daily Copy Editor
ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS