Write More
I spent some time with the blank page over the holiday break. In that quiet, I found myself thinking about perfection, where it comes from, who it’s serving, and how often it’s been holding me back.
Eventually, I took out the colours and marked up my new daytimer. I mapped out my goals and intentions for the year. “WRITE MORE,” circled in purple at the top.
Ten minutes a day. No polish required.
Seems so easy, doesn’t it?
Perfection has woven itself in and out of my life for as long as I can remember. As a small child, “perfect” was rewarded, a box of Smarties from my father, a shiny loonie from my mother, a tiny hit of approval that taught me the standard early.
Nothing else would suffice. Ninety-nine percent didn’t count.
For most of my life, my writing escaped that standard. I embraced the mess. I wrote feverishly just to get the thoughts out. I would hold the messy first draft with such pride.
But somewhere along the way, perfectionism crept in. If it couldn’t be perfect, it felt safer not to begin. Safer not to share. So, I stare at the blank page.
And yet writing, for me, has never really been about other people. It’s always been about my lens, my experiences, the way I make meaning of the world. It’s about letting the words exit me, and capturing life while it’s still happening.
So this year is about practice over performance. I’m letting the messy version count too. My writing doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to exist outside of me. The words don’t need to impress anyone, they just need to land on the page.
What are you giving yourself permission to do imperfectly this year, so you actually begin?
