Perfectionism is the mother of all things unfinished.
George Lucas is quoted as saying that films are never finished, merely abandoned--an echo of Beethoven's thoughts on composing music. I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself and a handful of beautiful people mired in their own plans when I say this: failing to complete is the very devil in us.
Fear of completion
Fear of failure
Fear of success
Fear of imperfection
Fear of judgement
They all lead to the same thing: the failure to act. The goal is not just unmet; it is unmade. As sure a sign of juvenility as an unmade bed. But you see we still have to lie in that bed, whether we made it this morning or not. Rather than always trying and sometimes failing, we have decided never to try and always succeed at failing.
Counterproductive. Yet the cycle continues.
Perfection does not exist on Earth. But do we really want it? Greta Garbo's face is said to have been aesthetically perfect; all the measurements and symmetry were there. She is seldom called one of the greatest faces of all time, however. That is more often affixed to the likes of the enigmatic Mona Lisa, whose eyes are too close together and whose mouth is too small. Her face fascinates us, draws us closer, until she's in danger of fading in the blitzing flashes of tourist cameras.
So, instead of trying to ward off horrible writing, fearing imperfection in my blog posts, I offer this one up. Virtually slapdash, a literary crime of passion. The passion for words is what drives me on when the perfectionistic fears swell. Passion is what began this affair, and I can't let thoughts of failure squelch it.