As I approach the end of my process on this story, I teeter on the edge of procrastinating indefinitely. I’ve done this before. I’ve written the story over and over again to avoid having to be done with it. I want to publish it, but I am plagued by my desire to make it perfect.
A cruel, beautiful, and terrible word to any artist. Denies forgiveness of the very humanity we are trying to express.
Perfect is the enemy of Done.
What will it take for me to accept Good?