The One With Perfection Anxiety

I have a bad habit of writing a post, editing it, picking over the words, and...

letting it sit. 

I don't know why I don't post those words. It's probably some kind of stage fright, but for writers.

I think I'm maybe a bit overwhelmed at possibility. I want to do something big. I want to reach for the stars, and make things that make a difference. I want to put my words out in the universe and see them take root and grow. I want to look back at my life in ten years, and see the formation of a new person. My words are my clay, and they are a holy experience.

I am supposed to write.

I'm not one for habits, but I have always been writing. There's a fuzzy rainbow journal that is buried in my room back in North Carolina (MOM DON'T READ IT.) Each year or so, I write a recap of my life, for myself. I distinctly remember one entry talking about how my brother was eight and that eight feels so old. (I said, as a thirteen year old) I also talked about The Bachelor finale, a show that I definitely was not allowed to watch. Ha.

I could also attribute this strange anxiety to a weird perfectionist streak that I have with my words. I'm constantly re-working, constantly re-reading, and tweaking.

No more.

I'm making the commitment to leap, to jump at new opportunities, and to write.

I am making the promise to myself and to you, dear readers, to press publish, even when I'm not finished, even when my work is not perfect, even when there is more to say. There will always be more to say, and there will always be more room.

Until later,

Molls