Perfectionism

I would never have described myself as such. Ever. But late in life I'm up against this defect of mine. And it is a defect. Perfectionist. It's a prison.

per·fec·tion·ism


/pərˈfekSHəˌnizəm/

noun

noun: perfectionism

refusal to accept any standard short of perfection.

It is paralyzing when it comes to my writing, to my completion of major projects. For example, I've written 3 novels. Understand that apart from an inquiry letter to publishers/agents here and there I've never pursued with any kind of energy or dedication actual publication of any of them as there is still so much to fix/rewrite/edit, you name it. Incomplete. Imperfect.

The recent anthology was agony. I will never look at it again, even though I've worked it and worked it. Because I will still see flaws and construction/grammatical problems et al infinitum. And this is depressing. Utterly.

My short stories, articles are never the issue as I can rework/edit these to my heart's content. Which I do. And then fire off. It's the larger works that are my personal sticky wicket.

The thing is, I let Novel #2 go for about 4 years. It had been work-shopped to much acclaim, a concept not written about before to everyone's knowledge. I hadn't read it since. But I needed the work I had done on it for a creative non-fiction short piece I'm writing.

So I took all day yesterday and read it as a stranger might and I was overwhelmed with how good and moving (I cried, lots) it was and today I'm going to work on expanding some chapters and then having Daughter and Grandgirl read it and take or not take their valued considerations and then fire it off, maybe a 100 times like a machine gun to different publishers without looking at it again.

And then get on the backs of the other 2 and do the same.

Time is running out.

On all of us.

The Sea, oh the Sea

I can't tell you how breathtaking it is here at the moment. Crystal skies, matched by the ice crust on the edge of the ocean which has its own private language for me alone as Ansa and I walk along beside it. It whispers and nudges and squeaks and squeals and shoves. Quietly. Ansa's back end keeps needing a rest. And that's fine by me. Ambling and pausing is delightful. And sea gifts. I picked up a pine shelf on the shore. I thought it would fit a window culvert in my house but no.

I've worked my library stint. Socialized with a few. Drank another coffee and then embraced the day outside.

I can forgive winter a lot at the moment. This magnificence can't be captured by any camera, it is so very perfect. All our snow has been gone for a while. And spring beckons. I sense it. I can weather another winter storm with this promise in the air.

Renewal. Redemption. Reinvention.

And yeah, I'm reminded of this songs, nailed by the Dubliners.