Unanswered Prayers: Truman Capote and The Case Against Perfectionism

By Mary Lynn Cloghesy and Jason Schembri

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Truman Capote is arguably one of the great American writers of the modern age. Sixty years ago, he penned his masterpiece, In Cold Blood, one of the first and best examples of a true crime novel. In fact, he established a new genre based on the book, which solidified his position among the New York literati, building on his earlier success in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. At the time, Norman Mailer called him, “the most perfect writer of my generation.” 

Imagine the pressure to follow-up… and the sense of triumph he must have felt when he surpassed all expectations. Once he’d achieved both fame and fortune through his meticulously researched account of the murder of the Clutter family, Capote set his sights even higher. He claimed his new manuscript, Answered Prayers, would “utilize all his skills,” and be the culmination of his stylistic innovations, boasting, “Oh, how easy it’ll be by comparison!” because “It’s all in my head.” 

He never finished it. Or any other major work. In fact, he suffered both personally and professionally. So, what happened? Let’s engage in our own amateur investigation, and consider the factors that led to this unfortunate outcome. By unearthing clues, we can not only bring to light the circumstances and psychological impairment that caused Capote’s anti-climax, but also prepare ourselves to tackle the same issue, which tends to affect artists in alarming numbers: perfectionism. 

As with any other case study, we need to set some parameters. Let’s begin by considering what “perfection” means. Mirriam-Webster defines it as “being entirely without fault or defect: flawless.” If we accept this as tenable, we can refine it by adding in the suffix “ism,” which is “a manner of action or behavior characteristic of a (specific) person or thing.” (fun fact: Mirriam-Webster also suggests it can be an abnormal behaviour) Now, let’s break this concept down even further. In Christopher Bergland’s article, “Is the Perfectionism Plague Taking a Psychological Toll?,” he refers to a long-term study that differentiates three aspects of perfectionism: 

1. Self-oriented perfectionism: imposing an irrational desire to be perfect on oneself.

2. Other-oriented perfectionism: placing unrealistic standards of perfection on others.

3. Socially-prescribed perfectionism: perceiving excessive expectations of perfection from others.

While the study focused on college students, we can apply the same approach to Capote. Did he suffer from one or more of these afflictions? If so, how did they become author interrupters? Let’s begin.

Self-oriented perfectionism: In his titular biography, Capote, author Gerald Clarke states that there’s a difference between “those who write, and [those who] write but can’t finish the job to their satisfaction.” Specially, Clark said “Capote set himself the highest standards, and he knew when he wasn’t achieving them.” What we can glean from this is that Capote intended to finish his book—and engaged in the act of writing—but was derailed by his own inflated expectations. He considered himself a genius, and said as much. 

In her book Bird by Bird, author Anne Lamott clarifies this painful and debilitating condition, stating, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor; the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft (SFD).” In an article in The New Yorker (“Golden Boy”), Capote himself remarked “when thinking about how good ‘the book’ might be, I can hardly breathe,” providing further evidence as to his disposition. 

Clearly, this type of self-aggrandizement is to be avoided at all costs. But that’s not all. There’s a flip-side. He also suffered from a heartbreaking lack of confidence. While this may seem contradictory, it’s the extreme of his perfectionism, an internal split that exposed his bravado for what it was: a mask that he wore to hide his feelings of inadequacy. In an interview in 1985, Capote said, “It's a very excruciating life, facing that blank piece of paper every day, and having to reach up somewhere into the clouds and bring something down out of them.” 

Is it any surprise then that his words, as eloquent as they may have been, never fully took shape within the narrative? Let’s broaden the scope now, and consider his thoughts about others. 

Other-oriented perfectionism: Author and psychologist, William Todd Schultz, addresses Capote’s approach to others in his biography, Tiny Terror: Why Truman Capote (Almost) Wrote Answered Prayers. He created a psychological portrait of the author that suggested his dark childhood led to what Schultz called dual life-scripts, explaining that on one hand, Capote was anxious, hypersensitive, and fatalistic, yet on the other, would present himself as bulletproof, mean-spirited, and bent on revenge. 

Throughout his career, he initiated feuds with other famous authors, notably when they received praise that he felt was undeserved. His perfectionist tendencies caused him to lash out. Consider this quote directed toward Jack Kerouac in 1959, “None of these people have anything interesting to say, and none of them can write, not even Mr. Kerouac. What they do isn’t writing at all — it’s typing.” He was referring to his defining work, On the Road.   

To Capote, others were inherently flawed, and neither foe nor friend could be trusted. Yet, he became obsessed with cultivating connections among the jet set, because he wanted to be considered “worthy” of them. In 1966, he hosted a legendary Black and White Ball in New York, calling it an “all-time spectacular present” to himself. The language itself exposes his bias: “all-time” and “spectacular,” are both superlatives. He dangled invitations for months among his peers, deciding who was “in” and “out,” a malicious manifestation of his perfectionism. 

Based on his interviews, Capote seemed perpetually disappointed in himself and others. As such, Answered Prayers not only became increasingly corrosive to his relationships, reflecting his disillusionment with high-society, but also self-destructive as he spiraled into alcohol and substance abuse. By 1977, he ceased work on his magnum opus due to a “creative crisis and a personal one.” 

Could this have been avoided if he’d eased his expectations? Could he have garnered support rather than sowed derision? Perhaps. Let’s look for clues as to how others, in turn, perceived him.

Socially-prescribed perfectionism: Capote was keenly aware of public perception of himself and his work, which became a major stumbling block later in life. He described his career as being split into parts, saying in an interview with Roy Newquist in 1964, “I think I’ve had two careers. One was the career of precocity, the young person who published a series of books… My second career began with Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It involved a different point of view…” 

As a young man, Capote described himself as precocious, which presumes boldness tempered by innocence. His talent was discovered early on, and he didn’t hesitate to use his gifts. Yet, after the critical and commercial success of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he shifted to a more experimental form of writing, a “non-fiction novel,” which begs the question why? Had he accomplished all he’d hoped to? Or was he deviating from what he knew because he was afraid of measuring-up?

Capote’s biographer Clark informs us, “He never allowed anything to be published that he thought was not up to snuff, and despite the booze and the setbacks he wrote well, very well… He just wasn’t able to finish the big one, Answered Prayers.” In the planning stages, Capote believed this work would become the American equivalent of Marcel Proust’s, In Search of Lost Time, a lofty comparison. It was scheduled for publication in 1968, but he eventually returned the advance.

Capote’s paralysis reveals a deep-seated fear of failure, exacerbated by his early success. Psychologist and professor, Joseph Ferrari of DuPaul University, has suggested that he may have believed that if he never finished, he could never be judged. In a profile in Interview Magazine, Capote admitted, “The more you know about something, the harder it becomes. You become more and more of a perfectionist. I think it’s a curse… it’s a form of illness.” 

So, what can we learn from him? How can we do it differently? As much as our pens and keyboards are essential tools of the trade, so are our self-care practices. We must cultivate a positive outlook towards ourselves and others to sustain a long and healthy career as a writer, particularly given the pressure associated with publishing (and marketing). 

When the balance is off, we begin to see ourselves “as” our work, stifling creativity and alienating others. Capote mused, “I think I would have written five times as much as I’ve written, if I didn’t have this terrible sense of perfection.” 

With that in mind, our top tip this month is to differentiate between perfectionism and the pursuit of excellence. Writers at all stages of their careers will strive to do their best work. There is nothing wrong with that—in fact, it’s an honorable aspiration—as long as the desire to learn and grow underpins what appears on the page. Perfectionism is the precise opposite. It’s a fixed belief that our skills and abilities are preset, where any struggle confirms our misunderstanding, creating a painful feedback loop.

If you recognize yourself in this article, meaning you suffer from procrastination or writer’s flood (filling vast pages only to delete the majority of the text afterwards), feel anger or negativity toward yourself or others when you (or they) write, seek validation and praise while feeling like an imposter, it’s time to get help. Perfectionism is a complex and dysfunctional mindset that requires an intervention and an assortment of strategies.

Regardless, here's a quick exercise you can try: ask yourself “what if?” questions. By contemplating the opposite (a tried-and-true technique that comes from Patanjali’s, Yoga Sutras), you can open new pathways. For example: What if you gave yourself permission to write an SFD? What if others would applaud your efforts? What if your worth wasn’t based on your work? Brainstorm some questions, then free-write your answers. Good or bad, skewed or not, they will help inform your next steps. 

Reach out. Talk to someone you trust. Do some reading and research. Above all else, remember Capote’s example. Don’t allow his fate to become yours. His true crime legacy includes the one perpetrated by himself on himself. He said, “More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.” Prophetic words.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – An Urban Legend of Writer’s Block

By Andi Kopek

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In the Writers City, you could often hear the dreaded words whispered fearfully down every alley: “Writer’s Block.”

The Writer’s Block—a haunted quarter of shuttered buildings, which rise suddenly right in the middle of Triumph Boulevard, with no detour in sight.

Or so I’ve been told.

I must confess: I’ve never encountered The Writer’s Block myself.

I know—I might sound like a snobby, egotistic, pompous windbag, but it’s the truth. Some people experience writer’s block. Some don’t.

And that prompted me to reflect on what the Writer’s Block actually is, its many forms, and the ways one can unblock the Block.

Thus, today we will flaneur through the Writers City, visiting several places belonging to the Writer’s Block: 1/ The Clock Tower of Deadlines, 2/ The Empty Fountain of Inspiration, 3/ The Old Courthouse of Rigid Thinking, 4/ The Abandon Lot of Self-Doubt, and 5/ A Charred Alley of Burnout.

Let’s start our tour.

1/ The Clock Tower of Deadlines

The Clock Tower looms high over Writers City, its giant hands ticking out a deafening rhythm: I need it now, now, now! Deadlines can create wonderful energy—a needed push—but they can also have a windchill effect: freezing the creative flow before it even begins. Writer’s brains can get filled up with deafening ticking, squishing creativity to a forgotten corner of the mind. How to deal with this major source of anxiety experienced by so many writers? I think we can divide deadlines into two categories: external and internal. Each of these requires a different approach.

External deadlines are the loudest—editorial calendars, publishing schedules, submission windows, grant applications, your significant other’s birthday. They’re real and often immovable. The bad and the good thing about them is that we have no control over them. We have no choice but to deal with them. The trick to managing external deadlines is not to fight the clock—it’s to set up a rhythm with it. Probably, the most efficient approach is to set mini deadlines along the way, which would give your creativity breathing room. These intermediary, mini deadlines need to be set in a smart way (even SMARTY way—check one of the previous columns) to work. And don’t forget to reward yourself for reaching each mini deadline. The reward can be very symbolic, but it is important for the Reward System of your brain to get it to create positive reinforcement.

I also like to set for myself a fake final deadline, a week before the actual one, and I make myself believe that the fake one is real. This gives me some wiggle room between the “fake/real” deadline and the “real/real” one, and if everything goes well, I actually can wiggle to my favorite tune during that time.

Internal deadlines, though, are trickier. They whisper rather than shout: You should’ve finished this by now. Why aren't you done yet? And these are the most uncomfortable whispers one could hear. They don’t come from editors or agents, but from the depth of ourselves—fueled by ambition, guilt, or comparison.

Luckily, unlike external deadline clocks, we can rewind internal ones. You are in charge of setting these clocks. You are the Clockmaster. The challenge, then, is to be painfully honest with yourself and answer these questions: what wound your internal clock to begin with? Was it ambition? Guilt? Comparison? Once you know the answer to these questions, you can decide whether the clock deserves to keep ticking—or if it’s time to dismantle it altogether—and give yourself the time your creativity actually needs, not the time your anxiety demands.

And remember, the answer to the question “For Whom the Bell Tolls?” is: “For you.” Sometimes to remind you to work hard—and sometimes to rest wisely.

2/ The Empty Fountain of Inspiration

Once a sparkling heart of the city, the Fountain of Inspiration now stands dry and silent, collecting trash in the forgotten corners, and pigeon droppings on the sun-bleached edges. Every writer who visits here wonders if the water will ever flow again.

It will.

Inspiration isn’t a permanent spring. It ebbs and flows with its own mysterious cycle. But it is a cycle — which means that after a dry spell, a wet season inevitably follows. Inspiration often arrives when we step away. When we stop staring at the dry basin, the fountain stream will suddenly spurt from The Fountainhead, creating ephemeral liquid sculptures, shaped by the flow and imagination.

3/ The Old Courthouse of Rigid Thinking

Built of stone and stubbornness, the Old Courthouse is where rules are written in marble: “Good writers always do X,” “Real stories must be Y.” Inside, creativity that does not align strictly with the Codex, is put on trial.

The judges wear wigs powdered with the literary canon, and the jury selection is based on MFA diplomas and certificates of self-proclaimed connoisseurs of “real literature.” In the Old Courthouse, sentences can be brutally sentenced to death—without right of appeal. Every time the word “experimental” is uttered, it triggers a frenzy of gavel-thumping.

No matter how compelling the story, if it breaks the unspoken rules, it risks exile from the shelves of respectability to the frozen tundra of obscurity.

But the truth is: the rules exist so they can be broken. If you realize that the best pieces of literature bend dogmas, shatter glass silos of genre, and create their own standards, you are free to proceed with reckless imagination.

Don’t try to please the judge.

Rise from the bench and start dancing to your own tune—and make it rain with words, puns, and unruly metaphors—unless, of course, you’d like to become next Jarndyce v. Jarndyce.

Case closed.

4/ The Abandon Lot of Self-Doubt

The Abandoned Lot of Self-Doubt is hard to spot in the corner of the Writer’s Block, hidden behind overgrown bushes and the rusting scaffolding of half-built, unfinished ideas. In the middle of the lot, Impostor Syndrome sits on a creaky swing, pretending to play—with feet never quite leaving the ground. It looks around and constantly compares itself to the ghosts of ever-better peers.

But we can clear and reclaim this lot. Somewhere beneath the bent scaffolds of unfinished drafts lies the original deed—the reason you claimed this space in the first place. Maybe it says, “I write to make this world a better place,” or “I create because it gives me an enormous joy.”

So, clear the lot. Dig out the deed. Read it out loud. Feel, again, as its rightful owner. And then, when you look around, you will no longer see The Waste Land.

You will say instead: “I will show you power in a handful of dust.”

5/ A Charred Alley of Burnout

Finally, we come to the Charred Alley, where once-vibrant cafes and colorful murals are now blackened and hollow, with chipped, broken bricks scattered around. This is where writers pushed too hard, fueled by ambition, perfectionism, or necessity, until the fire of creativity consumed itself.

If you find yourself here, don’t rebuild right away. Let the ground cool. Walk around. Reflect. Ask yourself: “What caused the fire in the first place?”

The truth might be that the last straw you “pushed through” landed on a haystack of repeated rejections, stalled projects, and sentences approximating perfection—all slowly drying in the heat of unmet expectations, and reaching slowly the ignition point of 233° Celsius.

So, to recover, give yourself a break from writing. Read, for a change, but just for pure enjoyment, not for research. Or change media—paint, draw, dance—to nourish yourself. And then, when the wind of healing blows away the ashes of burnout, you know you are ready to start again.

I hope that our little city tour through the Writer’s Block district will help you navigate through its strange architecture and meandering paths—so that, no matter where you wander, you will always enjoy the view.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his upcoming art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The Quiet Power of a Daffodil

By Andi Kopek

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This month, spring is in full bloom in Nashville. With weekly downpours woven between stretches of cloudless skies, the city becomes a lush green canvas—Eastern Redbuds paint the landscape with magnificent, three-dimensional splashes of purple, while daffodils jewel the lawns like yellow sapphires.

Which reminds me—April is National Poetry Month. All across town, and hopefully around the world, we celebrate both rhymed and free verse in readings, festivals, quiet moments, and spontaneous snippets of overheard beauty. I’m always in awe of how many people, from all walks of life, carry a love for poetry with them—whether at events, lectures, bookstores, or even in casual conversation. During a recent talk at a local college, I encouraged students to become poets even if they never write a single line. To me, being a poet begins with paying attention— with contemplating the world around you and within you. The poem, I told them, always starts with a reflection— seeing something with a fresh eye.

Why do so many people love poetry? Perhaps because in a world that prizes brutal efficiency and unwavering certainty, poetry offers a rare permission to wonder and to feel deeply. It provides a harbor on an island of peace when raging storms roil the seas of reality. People love poetry because it gives shape to what so often feels unshapable—a fleeting feeling, a moment too delicate to explain. Poetry holds these things gently, without needing to pin them down. It invites us to slow down, to discover meaning not just in what is said, but in what is left unsaid. It offers the joy of speaking in metaphor when plain language falls short.

Most people have nothing against poets—well, maybe with the exception of authoritarian governments, which tend to see poets as a threat. I wonder why?

I remember being told by my parents that in 1968, on the stage of Warsaw’s National Theatre, actor Gustaw Holoubek delivered a performance that would echo far beyond the velvet curtains. He was playing the lead in Dziady (Forefathers’ Eve), a poetic drama by Adam Mickiewicz, long cherished as a symbol of Poland’s soul and suffering. Mickiewicz had written it under Russian occupation in the 19th century, but Holoubek’s electrifying performance gave voice to national frustration and hope under post-World War II Soviet rule. It was more than just theater—it was a symbolic act of resistance. During one particular scene, Holoubek’s character said:

“(…) You know,

Our nation’s like a living volcano: the top is hard and cold,

worthless and dried,

but boiling, fiery lava seethes inside.”

He then rattled his chains and directed his gaze toward Soviet Ambassador Averky Aristov, who was in attendance. The ambassador, red-faced, left the theater immediately. The Soviet- controlled government swiftly banned the production and fired Holoubek—actions that ignited student protests and became the catalyst for the famous political unrest of March 1968 in Poland. The demonstrations were violently suppressed, but they marked the beginning of a new wave of resistance that would eventually lead to the rise of Solidarity (Solidarność) in the 1980s and, ultimately, to freeing Poland from the communist regime oppression.

Poetry has sparked fires elsewhere, too. On March 15, 1848, Hungarian poet Sándor Petőfi stood on the steps of the National Museum in Budapest and read his poem titled Nemzeti Dal (National Song) aloud. By the end of that very day, a revolution had begun. In India, the Urdu poem Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna (The Desire for Sacrifice), written in 1921 by Bismil Azimabadi, became the anthem of anti-colonial resistance—recited by young revolutionaries with death sentences on their breath. Even in the digital age, poetry played its part: during the Arab Spring of 2010–11, verses by Egyptian poet Abdel Rahman al-Abnoudi flew faster than bullets, smuggled in tweets and scrawled on walls, igniting courage where fear once lived. In the United States, Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise became a rallying force that gave voice to the oppressed:

“You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”

I like to reflect on the raging social fires a poem can spark when I look at a single daffodil in my lawn, newly born from the old soil.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his upcoming art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

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