It was bound to happen.
I’m a perfectionist. Often I’m a completely irrational perfectionist; I was that kid in school who would prefer not to turn it in because I thought it wouldn’t earn the A. When I first started teaching, I had to come to grips with the fact that perfection isn’t attainable in this profession. There’s always a way to be better, stronger. There’s always another kid to reach, another skill to teach, another (better) way you could present information. There’s always another teacher to help, another club to lead, another sport to coach. It was hard, but I’ve learned it.
Wouldn’t it be nice if that lesson translated to other parts of my life?
When I decided to make a go at this writing thing, I knew it was yet another aspect of my life where perfection would not be attainable. There is always a better way to say something, another book to write, another skill to learn. Knowing it and accepting it are two entirely different things.
I’m barely starting out, at only about a year into this journey. That’s nothing. In the blip of my entire life on the radar, it’s an eye blink. When compared with how long some of you have hung in there, it’s a heartbeat. I get it.
Yet how do I convince my irrational perfectionist core that it’s worth continuing?
I want to tell the stories.
I want to make a go at this.
I want people to read the stories.
I want people to be touched by the stories.
So if you’re like me-and you’re hitting that (figurative, thank the Lord) wall-let’s make a pact to keep writing anyway.
Here’s to us and the books we have yet to write.
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