You may never exorcise your Perfectionist demon, but you can learn to mute him
He comes off all blustery, but he's really a coward
I don’t know how he does it, but he keeps escaping.
Every time I get ready to resume writing my book, I bind my Perfectionist in duct tape, throw him in the closet in my office, and close the door.
But he keeps wriggling out of there and starts harassing me again, which I believe is one of the reasons that my Quiet Mind Golf book remains a work in progress after about 18 months.
I know lots of people who also have a Perfectionist in their head. There was a time you might brag in a job interview about your Perfectionist to make the case you were prudent, detailed-oriented, and always did your utmost best. But now, like workaholism, we now know that having a Perfectionism squatting in your cranium isn’t something to boast about.
My Perfectionist has been harassing me for about 50 years. I believe we first met when I began writing album reviews for my high school newspaper.
Yet, despite my Perfectionist’s constant haranguing and mocking, I somehow managed a career as a music critic, golf writer, radio broadcaster, podcaster, speaker and coach. I’ve written four books.
By now, you’d think I would have exorcised my Perfectionist demon. Best that I can offer is that over the years I’ve learned what makes him tick and how to shut him up from time to time.
I don’t believe we ever vanquish our triggers and self-sabotaging behaviours; the best we can do is respond to them so they don’t completely screw us over.
My Perfectionist is persistent. Every damned time I start writing—even now—it’s like he’s reading my stuff and doing a play-by-play. But he’s no genteel Jim Nantz in Butler Cabin. Think of Lord Voldemort doing his impression of a talking anaconda:
‘Look at this stuff. It’s not just crappy, it’s putrid! You suck. How do you have the unabashed gall to think you’re remotely qualified to write about anything?
“Besides, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would anyone care about this stuff? Why do you persist in this fantasy that anyone would actually buy your book. Get a real job.”
He’s a nasty bugger, eh? The Perfectionist is also deceitful. He tries to make me believe he’s pushing me to strive for excellence, meet high standards, and achieve dreams of grand success.
He comes off all blustery like he’s the big boss. But he’s actually a narcissist—a teeming mass of insecurities and fear. Fear that I’ll fail, fear people won’t think I’m any good, fear that people will think I don’t know anything, fear that I’m mediocre, fear that I’m just a wannabe, a dreamer.
In a bizarre way, my Perfectionist to trying to protect me.
Does the Perfectionist ever help me? Well, he ensures that I spell names correctly, which is important, and he pushes me to examine my stuff like a detective looking for high crimes but I think he’s often excessive.
Does every single comma have to be its proper place? Does a dropped word or a typo reveal that I’m a careless hack? When my Perfectionist is really giving it to me, I over-explain and my writing becomes stilted, just like my golf swing when I’m trying hard.
How do I live with my Perfectionist?
The best I can do is get my butt to my writing desk every damned day, and start typing. Hitting key after key seems to make the Perfectionist quieter. If I keep typing, words become sentences that become paragraphs that become pages. (Regarding myself as a Typist is far better strategy at dealing with my Perfectionist than trying to be a Writer.)
What appears on the screen can be awful, average and occasionally pretty good, but the results don’t matter. It’s The Practice—as Seth Godin calls it—that matters. If I keep on typing, the results take care of themselves, eventually.
I have rare days when I don’t hear my Perfectionist, but as sure as the sun comes up, he’ll greet me the next day whether I’m in front of my laptop, on the first tee, giving a golf lesson, or delivering a workshop.
Sometimes I have the presence of mind to thank him for trying to protect me, which confuses him. And when I just keep plugging away despite his commentary, I think he mopes and finds something better to do.
If I keep this up, I might finish my book, and save on duct tape.