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.
I live for the HEA and am constantly striving to improve my craft. Social media is the only place I connect with my peeps, so I rely on it for feedback about writing and the writing life.