Perfection Doesn’t Live Here Anymore

Inspiration and good moods can turn on a dime. One minute, it’s a beautiful sunny morning, I’m staring out my kitchen window, washing dishes. And despite the mundane, there is an ambiance of inspiration: good music, meditative crooning by Jai-Jagdeesh, a fragrant candle burning. I was humming with artsy energy and my ideas were starting to flow.

A few hours later I hit a wall. I finished the book I was reading and wasn’t quite prepared for the author to pack up his reams of wisdom and vacate my head so abruptly. There was no more meditative sponge swipes across plates, the candle smell had turned pungent and I got tired of the music, I needed quiet.

Let the record show, Perfection and me broke up a year ago, just before I quit my job. Perfection was a slave-driving beyotch who convinced me I looked good in pearls. Thanks to her I felt the need to wear dressy slacks and silk shirts to an office where everyone else often wore jeans and polo shirts. After reading a few Brene Brown books I realized I needed distance between myself and Perfection. Perfection was a toxic control freak and I had to get away from her.

Meh. Now I’m rambling.

Here’s the deal, I’m not feeling very inspired this afternoon and I’m not sure how I got here. I was doing great earlier, coming off a beautiful weekend, eager to get back to work, ideas were popping like flashbulbs in my head. I even managed to write some of them down. And! I wrote my daily allotment of nine hundred plus words. Everything seemed to be going so well!

Ugh. Ok, the thing about being your own boss is you have to self-start everyday for however long you give yourself to work. And inside the framework of set work hours, as you go from one task to the next, you have to keep hitting the reset button on motivation and discipline. Some days I breeze through assignments, barely glancing at the clock. But on other days, I check the time every fifteen minutes and check my to-do list with even more frequency.

And then ….. here they come again, the voices: NOW what are you doing? Hey, how about some chocolate? Is there anymore ice cream? What in the world was that garbage you wrote earlier, you call that an essay? Anything new on Netflix? No gym time again, huh? What’s it been, a week since you hit the treadmill? Hey, I know, let’s check your blog stats … again. Oh geez, is this the next book you’re reading? Can the words be any tinier? It looks like a snoozefest, maybe you should just skim it? Shouldn’t you text somebody, come out from your cave? Oh! I know– let’s check your emails again.

Solitude. It’s every writer’s dream. Until it’s not. Sometimes. Not all the time.

Paranoia and Madness become your friends …. along with the voices. It’s okay, no where near as crazy as one might think. I think mental illness gets an exaggeratedly bad rap.

Anywayz! I’m recording all this because Perfection doesn’t live here anymore. Even though she still stalks and scratches at my life’s door to be let back in. Oh you know, perfect looking selfies, posting mostly good news, acting as if the writing life is a breeze, trying to appear flawless. Ha! If I even smell her perfume, I’m putting out an APB and turning every spotlight on that pearls-wearing viper.

headless self pearls