#amwriting #writing #writers ENOUGH

I'm a perfectionist.  It does not mean I think everything I do is perfect.  It, in fact, means the exact opposite.  It means I try my hardest and it's never enough to satisfy me.  I will always be just short of the goal I set for myself.  Which is, of course, perfection.  It's a handy tool to flagellate my soul with when the going gets tough.  No matter the praise I receive, achievements I stack up, or the empirical evidence, I will never be enough.  It's my greatest weakness and strength.  It forces me to be the best I can be, yet withholds the satisfaction needed to find peace.  

I've published two books as of this writing, and I will never read those books again.  They'll live in my memory as fond experiences, as good as the feeling I had when I hit send and delivered them to my editor.  But I can't revisit them, as I do with other authors.  The last thing I write is always the best thing I write.  To read something I can't improve, with my name on it, would be a torture I'd never recover from.  It would hurt any future projects I'd consider.

Writing is my drug.  And as with all addictions, there is a nasty side effect.  Insecurity.  When I email my WIP to my editor, it's an opus.  As I await their judgment, it's suspect, potentially NOT GOOD.  It's a horrible thing to hang your self-esteem on something as subjective as art.  It's not a sensible life choice, and yet I do it.  I am more than the sum of my accomplishments and talents, but take them away, I have to wonder if I am enough.