Breinthewild

I never thought of myself as a perfectionist. In my mind, I pictured such a person as a type-A personality with a daybook on them at all times, coupled with an immaculately clean house and pristine outfit choices.

As a disorganized, messy sort who loves to procrastinate, I figured my general existence automatically disqualified me from perfectionism. Now, I’m not so sure.

See, I’m not the type to get upset if something’s not in its designated place, or if I encounter a messy kitchen sink. But when it comes to something I value, suddenly I do care–deeply–about how it looks and where it’s placed.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in my own writing.

(You knew I was getting there).

It’s just so… disappointing. Always. It never looks how I’ve pictured, or sounds exactly like what I’m trying to convey. Before long, I end up frustrated with myself and my work, and find it’s easier to walk away. Easier, but not fulfilling.

The problem is, I don’t know how to turn it off. I’m gracious with the mistakes of others but seem to have none for myself. I should be better, know better, work better. Right? If this is something I truly, desperately want to do, then I should be able to just do it.

Right?

There’s a quote on the front page of my current notebook which I think encapsulates this pretty well:

“Don’t wait until you’re ready. No one ever is.”

At some point, I have to be willing to write crap. Utter childish nonsense. Incomplete sentences. Something to be loathed by the masses and at least a few of my relatives.

I have to give myself permission to fail and perhaps never succeed.

Because at this point, the only alternative is to write nothing that isn’t perfect, which would be nothing at all.