Writers obsess. It’s endless. We starve ourselves over sentences, paragraphs, and word choices.
Don’t lie, dammit, we all do it.
We sit at the intersection of pure sucktitude and perfection, not even looking both ways.
We get stuck, staring at our computer screens, waiting…and waiting. We search. Maybe look around the room trying to look smart. Fuck it, we are smart. We edit the living shit out of our writing. Yes, that writing which we just wrote. We backspace. We highlight.
We delete the shit we just wrote, well, because it was, in fact, shit.
Or so we thought. Truth is, we just don’t know.
Ahhhh, perfection. What is it? Where is it? Where ever to find that little bastard? Or, should we even look?
Here’s a hint. Please sit. This will hit you hard. Very hard.
WRITING PERFECTION DOESN’T EXIST.
Write and keep writing. Stop for coffee and bathroom breaks, but only on occasion. Eat when needed.
The perfect sentence, paragraph, or word – no, wait, perfect words do exist, but the others, they don’t – never comes when we obsess over it. Oh, we try. Damn do we try. Our hands hover over the keyboard like it’s a game of touch the flame. We tap the pulp of our fingers together like a mad scientist developing a plot for world domination. We imagine.
We develop our plan. We create words that turn into magical sentences. Those sentences generate beautiful paragraphs. We think.
This fucks us up. We delete. We obsess.
“Goddammit,” we scream.
If a sculptor obsesses, he only ends with a hand instead of a statue. If a writer does the same, he only ends with a few sentences instead of a story.
Our obsession for perfection stops after we have read and edited our work many times. No, many, many, many times
We hand the scribble over to an editor.
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