When my beloved nieces were little, we were shambling along with the other Christmas zombies through an American Girl store, an experience best avoided if you value your sanity or hard-earned cash. As my girls gazed with crackhead longing into each carefully staged vignette lining the perimeter of the lower level, my youngest, Annee, pointed at something in the case titled Molly: An American Girl on the Home Front.

“What’s that, Chuckles?” (Please stay focused. Another story for another time.). I followed her gaze and tiny, jabbing index finger, to the WWII era, miniature typewriter, appropriately sized and optimally positioned for her junkie glazed eyes.

For those not in the know, the brilliant (some might say evil… and by some I mean ME) the brilliant marketing conceit of the American Girl doll experience was that each monstrous, matte finished vinyl, demon spawn came with a carefully crafted, and historically specific persona, including a horde of dead eyed friends and ALLLL of their associated accoutrements.

Along with the typewriter, belonging to Molly’s bestie, Kit, they each also had a literal backstory. A corresponding book recounting their wee dolly struggles in whatever glass encased hellscape they called home.

“She can’t POSSIBLY be pointing at the typewriter, right?”, I thought to myself in silent horror, “She MUST be talking about the war rations booklet, right? RIGHT?!”.

Gleefully adding to my nightmare, AshLee said, “It’s one of those things from cartoons that goes Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack-DING!, Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack-DING!” and backspaced the question right off her sister’s face.

Satisfied with this non-answer and already jonesing for her next fix, Annee clutched 3 of my fingers in her clammy hand and said, “Let’s go look at Kaya! She has her own TEPEE!”.

I paused just long enough to make sure the tennis balls were still securely affixed to my walker, before dutifully following her as any good Chuckles would.

I share many personality traits with these two beautiful creatures I was fortunate enough to help raise, but in the area of perfectionism, Ash and I have the most in common. Though where I tend to faff about lamely (with a gay man’s flair for the dramatic), her young and agile brain is more adept and skillful in the process of solving the puzzle of herself and she is dogged in that pursuit. Where I find myself mired in this creative minefield, paralyzed for decades in my inability to navigate my way to safety, she approaches such issues with aplomb and a determination to find tools to cope and overcome.

She recently shared the concept of Imperfect Action with me. The snippet she sent was through the lens of a fitness coach, but the message rang true just the same. She texted “Chuckles” (Haven’t we talked about this already? Not one more word out of you!) “Chuckles, I think this applies to your painting!”, and she was absolutely right.

You see “painter” is just one of the many assumed identities taken up by the chain gang of word convicts that regularly escape the overcrowded prison of my creative brain. Since my hands have proven to be useless tools to facilitate their rehabilitation through the keyboard or the pen, one of the sneaky fuckers, hopped up on pruno, always manages to keister stash a spoon and tunnel his way out. He will brazenly reappear at some later date, donning a clever disguise to cover all those nifty jailhouse tattoos, and a brand spankin’ new stolen identity. Instead of doing his time and returning to society as a completed essay, or short story, or script, or great American Girl novel, he will continue his life of crime, hiding in plain sight behind the artist’s smock, or the jeweler’s loupe, or the blacksmith’s hammer, or the improviser’s “Yes/And”.

I could go on… and probably will.

I have squandered… no, that is not accurate. I believe creative outlets in any form are valuable and none of that expended energy is ever wasted. I have channeled all of my creative juices into countless other artistic endeavors (including the unfinished painting Ash referred to) and have the wall of corresponding materials, neatly stacked in matching black storage containers, to prove it. Each one is carefully numbered, with the contents documented (#16 – Darkroom Photography Materials, por ejemplo) and stored in a Note on my iPhone titled INVENTORY. Naturally.

Imperfect Action is easier said than done for a freakshow like me, but the idea is fairly simple. Just do something… anything. Don’t focus on the end result. This exercise is entirely about the process. Take some small action each day and build upon it. Make it a habit. Commit to it like flossing… OK, my periodontist would probably say that’s not be the best example. Commit to it like drinking 64 ounces of water a day… OK, the full water bottle at the bottom of my gym bag would probably say the same thing… though in my experience, water bottles (full or otherwise) don’t talk unless you’re tripping balls. Commit to it like… like… commit to it like EATING.

Well stand back because THAT I can do!

I am finally at a place where I can add the bumper sticker wisdom of Progress Not Perfection to the daily rhythm of my life and can actually see areas where it’s already in glorious, big band swing. Six little syllables with so much raw power.

In the regional theatre production of The Shit Show I’m currently starring in (known to my devoted fans as “work”), there is an effort to transform our company culture by applying the Japanese philosophy of Kaizen, or “continuous improvement”, to our ongoing business development strategies. Someone please shoot me if I ever say, “business development strategies” again but, win/win, this notion was in lockstep with the way I organically worked so it felt completely natural to make “One percent better, every single day!” my mantra.

And at the gym, I find my slow but steady, incremental progress much easier to swallow as well. To the amazement of no one ever, I have never been a dedicated gym goer. But the Pandemic Paunch is REAL, folks, and my doctor said if I didn’t lose some weight (and by “some” he meant the equivalent of 3 chubby toddlers), the next stop on the midnight fatass train was Diabetes Town. All aboard. Toot fucking toot.

Luckily, we happen to have a personal trainer in the family.

Annee, she of the clammy hands and devil doll rapid aging techniques, discovered Capoeira in middle school and never looked back. She eventually rolled into Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and is now pumped on powerlifting, with competition undoubtedly in her future. She is not an actual personal trainer, but she might as well be since she has a natural gift for coaching and is an inspiration to so many. She is an absolute BEAST in the gym and has evolved into the family go-to person on all thing’s fitness. Over the past 6 months she’s been providing me with the kick in the sizable pants that I needed, and I’ve found the exercise of exercise to be so much more empowering than I honestly ever expected.

You couldn’t ask for a more patient drill sergeant. Maybe it’s genuine fear of my own mortality that motivates me and keeps me coming back. Or perhaps it’s our unbreakable bond that has imbued me with a level of commitment I always seemed to lack before. Perhaps a combination of both. But when she says, “Chuckles” (Just you wait until I find out what your nieces call YOU!) when she says, “Chuckles, I am SO proud of you!”, I am suddenly proud of MYSELF, and my resolve is further strengthened.

So this imperfect man of action is finally focusing on the process not the prize because the secret that has finally been revealed to me is that the process IS the prize.