In the words of Steven King, ‘the most important things are the hardest to say’.

I am not a writer. And I definitely don’t pretend to be one.

But I have this disease.

I wait too long to find the perfect thing to say, to brew up the perfect idea in my mind, and in the midst of banging my heads against the wall, I forget the reason why I was inspired to create art or write in the first place; it was because of this mystical urge to express, to share, to create as artists do. But too often I find myself being infected this disease I call perfectionism.

The disease of perfectionism marks every artist like the Beast marks its followers. If you have it, it will beguile you; take control over your work and then your life. Perfectionism is every artist’s nightmare because simply put: it’s an addiction. If you have it it will resist you to follow your urge to express, create, and do art. If you have it you will always be unsatisfied with your work until you start questioning your inner voice, until you completely ignore young inner voice that inspired you in the first place.

On that day you will no longer be an artist — you will never have a shot of creating a masterpiece. That day you can stop pretending to be a writer. It’s over for you.

Perfectionism is a disease that sucks every last drop of motivation; it grips on to you until you completely sabotage yourself to the point of no return.

When you start you but cannot finish, when you finish but cannot start again, that’s when you know you’re infected.

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