"And in fact, I think the more we start to worship perfection the more soul leaks out of art."
For those of you who don't know me that well, you may not be aware that I have this thing about perfection. I really like the notion of it. A lot. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's like Santa; exists only in your mind and spirit - blah, blah. Still, when you tend to strive for it, and it eludes you, it's a tough pill to swallow. I've spent the past few days working on a story and struggling to get it down the exact way I want to. It's gone something like this: Write, delete, write, delete. Chocolate. Not a pretty picture, gang.
As of this morning I've decided I need to relax my standards. It's nearly impossible to be creative with a self-imposed perfection pistol poised at your temple. I realize this is going to take some getting used to. Rome wasn't built in a day and all that. I plan to start small, with a page, not an entire chapter. Just a page. In a writers world, it's a baby step.
I'll admit I'm no stranger to Perfect Shmerfect. I'm privy to the actualization that my Book Baby is not without it's technical difficulties. You should know that a spit-shined manuscript, once out of your trembling hands, meets many other hands. Sometimes mistakes are unavoidable. Finished products are not always presented for your intense scrutiny. For the perfectionista like your truly, it's a bit like a traffic accident - gory, yet I can't help but stare. I've had to take a crash course in reality. Accept the fact: that's the way it goes, and move along.
All this said, I'm still going to shoot for 100%. I'm still going to aim high. I'm just not going to stare down the barrel of the gun.