A Writer's Torture

I did what most writers do at some point in their lives: I deleted my work.

I was not satisfied with what I'd written and deleting it was the only way to alleviate my frustrations. I'd put energy, which I did not have, into a post I was planning to publish, but my obsession for perfection halted me to a stop. I did not publish it because it was not perfect. Or interesting. Or funny. Or intriguing. You name it.

It was insipid and dull, passionless and unrealistic, but it was mine. It might not have been perfect, but I worked hard to bring an idea to life. I carried it and birthed it, but my own insecurities prevented me from raising it.

This is the hardest and most painful part of being a perfectionist: nothing is good enough. I'm guilty of exerting unnecessary pressure on myself only to decide later I need more. O, but, wait, if our inability to reach perfection is painful for a writer, torture is deleting our words, sending them back into uncharted territory, telling them they're not important enough to be read, and dismissing hours of arduous work as useless. Yes, that is pretty painful. 

The relationship between writing and perfectionism is analogous to that of torture and death. My writing contains an infinitesimal piece of my soul--an aspect of my psyche unseen by the naked eye but present among words--and when perfectionism relegates my work to a nonexistent realm, that part of my soul is forever lost in the void of space, drowned in the River Styx, along with hope, inspiration, and countless dreams.

I am the main course at a dinner party hosted by my own insecurities. I am seasoned with doubt, frustration, and failure, and then torn apart limb by limb. My screams echo through time and space and reach the bottomless pit where noise is consumed by silence, where cold extinguishes fire, and where death overtakes life.

Am I getting too dramatic? Yes? Just a little? Agreed. You get the idea (I hope).