I sometimes fight with perfectionism, the idea that “good enough” is not, in fact, good enough.
Mostly, as I progressed through my thirties, I tamed this beast. Confidence and life experience taught me to shrug my shoulders in its face.
But then came my first full manuscript. It had a deadline, a generous deadline, but it needed a lot of work. How could I possibly get my manuscript from where it was (random, unconnected thoughts) to where it needed to go (a connected whole)?
Perfectionism’s bed partner, procrastination, soon joined the party.
The summer schedule I’d set up lay untouched.
Soon, my final week of summer holidays came. On the Monday morning of that final week, I sat down at a nearby college library, pulled out my moleskine, and scribbled this note for myself:
Then I got to work, making it better, not perfect.
Any stories of perfectionism to share?
What is the beast you must slay before you get things done?