I am the teen who—before computers became a mainstay—rewrote entire pages when I misspelled a word. White-out wasn’t pretty. Cross-outs weren’t perfect.

I am the college grad who looked over my records with disdain, those A-minuses peppered throughout, mocking me with their negative connotations.

I am the woman who struggled to enjoy her wedding day because—while stunning, while beautiful—the reality didn’t match the months of planning, the vision in my head.

Before all of that, before all of the perpetual I am’s that stick with me even now, I simply was. I was the kid who didn’t know any better, who was happy, healthy—and free.

So much of my writing involves getting back to my innocent self, returning to that less-jaded time in childhood where the world is still new and full of wonder. I want that to be my viewpoint, my message to the world. I want to shape young minds and remind older ones that there are things we don’t have to forget, fantasies we don’t have to give up, just because we become more worldly and mature. Something I hadn’t thought of until now, though, is that we all could use a return to the mental freedom of childhood as well.

Children—at least the child I was and the children I knew—aren’t yet bogged down with self-doubt and societal expectation (at least, to the extent that teenagers and adults are). They make friends easily because everyone is just looking to play. Their personalities and interests aren’t fully developed, so everyone has much more common ground than they’ll have in later years. They just do as opposed to thinking about doing, worrying about doing, agonizing about not doing. The world is wide open, and it doesn’t matter if they’re the best; they just want to be in the game.

These are gross over-generalizations, but compared to how competitive life becomes, within and without, I feel that they hold true. At least it does for me: while I was always an aware child, I don’t remember being an analytical and controlling one. That came later, and from that, a need to be perfect and the judgement of others who fail to do things “the right way.” I am not better for it.

This critical, judgmental, perfectionist side of me has to go, and not just for the good of those around me (though that is important). Others don’t always see or know it, but the person who I am most severe towards is myself. This state of mind, this constant self-beratement, is toxic to my development as a human, my fulfillment as a woman, and my actualization as a writer/creator. [As part of this “down with perfectionism” credo, I chose to leave in “beratement,” even though it’s not technically an approved form of the word. I thought about rewording the sentence to use “self-berating” instead, but—in the spirit of this post—I am choosing to embrace the neologism instead.]

Every time I sit down to write creatively, I battle my inner demons. I first must break down this wall of perfectionism and the little devil on my shoulder telling me that I can’t do this. My head knows that this is no way to create: the first draft is supposed to be sloppy, messy, bad. The first draft is meant to capture the spirit of the piece, the emotion, and the polish and precision come later in the editing phase. You can’t edit a blank page. My heart, though, feels the pressure to succeed, to be perfect, to prove that I have what it takes. It’s almost overwhelming at times. Despite this, I am doing it, word by word. I’m struggling through the process, and that’s the mark of a true writer: writing even when it’s tough.

My struggle would be greatly lessened, however, if I could cast off this need to be perfect. It’s not a good way to live life, and I’m tired of being under its control. It’s exhausting. I am not perfect. My first draft will not be perfect. My final book, even, will not be perfect. What I hope it will do is touch people, move people to a new understanding of their own lives and the world around them. That won’t come with every single word being the “right” word; that will come with the overall expression of themes and ideas. That will come with letting go and just letting the story flow.

So, now that I’m aware of one of my primary flaws and am actively trying to combat it, now comes the actual day-by-day, moment-by-moment battle. If any of you out there in Internet-land have any suggestions for coping with and defeating perfectionism, I’d love to hear them.

As a first counter-attack, I will not be postdating this article back to Friday, on which I should have posted. I will own up to my lateness and embrace the change: I’ve been wanting to give Tuesdays a shot, to see if that worked better with my schedule than Fridays. Here goes nothing!