Writing my way through perfectionism

Every time I sit down to write this post, my mind goes blank. 

I can’t remember any of the ideas I’ve had since my last post. The ones I excitedly jotted down in my journal and drafts folder now seem uninspired and uninteresting. I am filled with apathy; the thought of writing anything at all feels pointless. I have the incredible urge to just give up.

When we think about perfectionism, we tend to think about perfecting what’s already in progress. But for me, perfectionism usually shows up before I’ve even started writing. It tells me that I must have the perfect idea, the exact right words first—otherwise, what’s the point in even starting? There is none.

Obviously that’s not true, though. There are plenty of reasons to write despite not knowing what to write about. Even the most pointless-seeming writing still helps me know myself better, engage in playful creativity, and practice my skills. It also gives me something to do besides doomscrolling. 

I try to explain all this to my perfectionism. It does not understand. I try to make it understand. It cannot understand. I beg it to at least try to understand. It refuses.

This leaves me with two options: I can either walk away, or I can write anyway.

Walking away might not be the most emotionally mature thing to do, but it is the most appealing. Arguing with my perfectionism is painful and infuriating; walking away would be the fastest way to put an end to it. But it would also mean not writing, and that’s painful, too. I want to write. My perfectionism is just blocking the path. 

Writing anyway would take way more effort. Not only would I have to find a way around my perfectionism, I’d also have to deal with it following me, nagging me, repeatedly reminding me that everything I’m writing is pointless because it’s not the right thing. It would take resolve and patience to write under those conditions. Is writing really worth it?

9 times out of 10, I decide that yes, it’s worth it. And 9 times out of 10, my perfectionism is shocked and offended by my decision. 

“What do you mean you’re going to write anyway? What if you mess up? What if people judge you?” 

I realize all at once that my perfectionism is not the bully I thought it was. It’s more like a scared little kid—and I’m the adult responsible for it. The thought melts away my frustration; my body softens. I squat down to look my perfectionism in the eye. I take its little hands in mine. 

“I know you’re afraid,” I say, “but I’m right here. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

When I stand, I’m ready to write. And my perfectionism is ready to let me.