Perfection is the thing that keeps me from doing what I say I want to do. It's the thing that makes me do everything else —clean the bathroom tiles, mop the floors, organize my files — before I start writing.

I'm hesitant, afraid to make the move to write. I'm afraid of what won't come out; what might come out. I'm scared of getting it wrong, I'm terrified that it'll be terrible.

I'm afraid people won't like it as much as I want them to.

Perfection holds me back. It keeps me from putting my words on paper. It keeps me from telling my stories. Perfection traps me inside myself and keeps me waiting...patiently agonizing to say what I want to say.

Perfection is my enemy and friend: It's the thing I hate, it's the thing that keeps me from exploring myself, my mind, my feelings. And it keeps me from exposure, from criticism, from being seen.

My writing practice isn't easy or relaxing...yet. It's still filled with shoulder tightness and teeth-clenching. Where's the ease and the flow and the pleasure? It's not here, but maybe one day it will be...or not. Maybe the dance with perfection is part of my process.