When we think of creativity, we usually think of light and color, happiness and freedom. That’s the upside of living the creative life of a writer. But there’s a dark side too—one we don’t always like to talk about. And that dark side can be encapsulated in two words: judgment and perfectionism.

There’s a controversial running joke in the writing community about “grammar thugs.” The joke is a denigration of those among us who feel compelled to point out other writers’ (or sometimes poor, hapless non-writers’) spelling and grammar mistakes.

The controversy, of course, enters in that it seems irresponsibly hyperbolic to compare violent criminals (or worse) to someone’s annoying “it’s Levi-OOH-sa, not LevioSAR.”

But as in most jests, there’s a note of truth, however small, to be had here.

This notable tendency among writers to inflict public smackdowns upon each other over nothing more than a few misplaced letters (and, yeah, I know some of you are cringing at the idea that misplaced letters are “nothing”) is not indicative of the higher emotions that sometimes flutter in the human breast. Indeed, our willingness and even need to judge others and demand perfection from them is, in fact, an indication of even more substantial roadblocks to our own creative and personal journeys.

The upshot is this: writers are a judge-y lot. But, in truth, we judge no one more harshly than we judge ourselves.

(Note: Before moving on, let me just throw out a quick clarification that there’s a huge difference between grammar thugs who publicly humiliate others over mistakes it’s too late to correct versus writers who kindly watch out for each other by privately providing the heads-up about a typo or mistake that can still be fixed. To anyone who has ever emailed or messaged me about a typo in a post: thank you!)

Who Are You Really Judging—Others or Yourself?

Fierce on the Page by Sage Cohen (affiliate link)

While reading Sage Cohen’s inspirational book Fierce on the Page, I had to stop and muse over the painful familiarity of her anecdote:

The reader had given me a five-star review of my book. She spent a few paragraphs raving about all she had learned, and then she dedicated the entire second half of the review to venting about a typo that displeased her. Reading this review brought me back to my own long and circuitous journey living alongside the inevitability of mistakes.

Certainly, I’ve been on the receiving end of such unbalanced criticisms. But I’ve also been on the giving end. When first starting out as a writer, and particularly before I was published, I felt a certain measure of credibility in being able to point out other people’s mistakes. I remember with regret an early review I left for a self-published book in which I said something vague but cutting along the lines of “the editor should have been horsewhipped.”

Too, I’ve stamped my ticket and taken my seat in that crowded rowboat bobbing its way on an endless journey to the Isle of Indignant Typo-Spotters. How dare Random House be so careless as to release a book with such a glaring atrocity as “she walked to the the window”?

And if the offender was a lowly self-publisher? Well, then, of course, I must bear the responsibility of hammering them with my own wisdom in order to improve their faults.

But here’s the interesting thing: I was just as hard on myself. My own mistakes were devastating. I was humiliated when people pointed out typos. I was distraught when beta readers didn’t think my characters were well-developed. I measured my success or failure, not just as a writer but as a person, on the success or failure of my book launches and reviews.

Here’s the other interesting thing: as my personal journey has led me into the ability to show myself grace and compassion, to relinquish perfectionism as a mistaken means to an unachievable end, and to stop viewing writing (and life) as a zero-sum game of success or failure—then so, too, have I found myself surrendering the need to judge others in equal measure.

In short, our judgment of others is almost always a symptom of a deep-seated judgment of ourselves.

The Inherent Roadblock of Judgment and Perfectionism

Ironically, writers often see perfectionism as an antidote to the sting of self-judgment.

We think it makes us, well, perfect. Or at the very least, it keeps us competitive with excellent writers. We think it is the only way to shut up the harpings of our “always right” internal editors. But really, perfectionism just makes us paranoid, gives us writer’s block, and kills our creativity.

Perfectionism is not the antidote to judgment. It is not a counter-balance designed to ensure there is nothing to judge. Rather, it is judgment at its most extreme.

Perfectionism judges everything and finds everything wanting.

We embrace this judgment in the belief it will enhance and refine our creativity. But the opposite is true. Perfectionism is poison.

I recently listened to an interview with sociology professor Kathryn J. Lively, who shared the deep insight that:

Judgment and curiosity cannot live in the same place.

Creativity is founded on curiosity. Creativity is much more the ability to ask questions, rather than the need to provide answers. This is true at every level of the writing process, all the way from “What makes a sucessful story?” to “What if my character did this?” to “What if this unexpected thematic premise were true?” to “What if releasing a book with a glaring mistake really didn’t matter?”

Yeah, I know that last sounds radical. But, seriously, ask yourself: What if it didn’t matter? What if it didn’t matter if people liked your book? What if it didn’t matter if the book got trashed in reviews?

I’m not saying it doesn’t matter—but what if?

Isn’t there a sense of freedom just in the act of asking and exploring?

The Why and the Who: Why Are You Doing This? and Who Are You Listening To?

Most of our perfectionism and self-judgment is fueled less by our own ideals and more by what other people seem to be telling us our ideals should be.

You should be writing genres that sell.

You should be writing literary fiction.

You should be writing genre fiction.

You should be writing at least one book a year.

You should be writing socially and politically pertinent characters.

You should be publishing traditionally.

You should be turning out pitch-perfect copy.

You should be building a huge marketing platform.

You should be selling enough books and earning enough money to write full-time.

We hear all these messages and more every single day. And we listen to all of them. We want to succeed. We want to write excellent and worthwhile stories. We want to make a difference in the world. We want the promises inherent in all these statements to be true.

That first moment you set foot in the writing world, you were undoubtedly bombarded with these mission statements about what it means to be a true writer—and what you had to do to become one. Mostly, it all boiled down to “following the club rules.” You have to write this way, market this way, and want what everybody else in the group wants.

Maybe you do want that. And maybe you don’t.

Something I’ve realized in the last few years is that many of the things I’ve done along the way are things I did with no real desire or enjoyment, but just because I was told I had to do them if I wanted to be the Best Writer Ever.

There is no endeavor in life so deeply and intimately personal as the act of creation. There is no one who can tell you why you’re doing it and what you really want from it. Only you can know that. The problem is that we are often so used to listening to others tell us what we want that our own inner voices fade away.

The irony is that much of our self-judgment is based on desires we don’t even really want and ideas we don’t even really believe in.

Don’t let anyone judge you for what you’re wanting or doing until you really, really know what it is you actually want and how you want to do it. Paulo Coelho shared beautifully:

I write from my soul. This is the reason that critics don’t hurt me, because it is me. If it was not me, if I was pretending to be someone else, then this could unbalance my world, but I know who I am.

Ask Better Questions Than “Is This Good?”

One of the reasons perfectionism is so crippling is it’s so limiting. Perfectionism blocks out the exploratory curiosity that allows us to ask helpful questions about our work. Instead, it limits us to one question and one question only: “Is this any good?”

We are often paralyzed by the starkness presented by the only two possible responses to this question. Someone recently emailed me, asking:

How do you stay focused on your calling to be a writer when it feels terrifying? There’s a type of creating—the fun kind—where we work on a project through meals and just baaarrreely remember to get up and go to the bathroom. And then there’s this other kind of creativity where we contemplate using ratchet straps to hold ourselves to our keyboard because we so desperately want to run away.

After a lot of thought, I responded:

This is a good question, and frankly one that’s tricky to answer. I think this is because there isn’t a black-and-white answer. In the past, I would have said something about “willpower, old boy, willpower,” and how we just have to grit our teeth and power through the difficult times.

I still believe this. But in the last few years, life has taught me a lot, not least of which is the importance of being kind to ourselves, of realizing that however important our writing may be to us, it is not the be-all-end-all. Taking care of ourselves, listening to our resistance, understanding why things are difficult without beating ourselves up for it—these are all important steps toward healthy balance.

What keeps me writing, day in and day out, is the question: Who do I want to be?

When all the dust settles, do I want to be the person who gave up on her dreams? Who gave up on trying to contribute something worthwhile to the world? Who gave up on creating? The answer, of course, is no. So while I also try to be more generous with myself in giving myself permission to take time off when I really need it, I’m also determined that what I’m doing is worth doing every single day, even when it’s hard.

Stop asking binary dead-end questions. Start asking open-ended questions that lead to growth rather than scaring you with their finality. Freelance author Steve Goodier offers some good starting places:

Still the voices of your critics. Listen intently to your own voice, to the person who knows you best. Then answer these questions: Do you think you should move ahead? How will you feel if you quit pursuing this thing you want to do? And what does your best self advise? What you hear may change your life.

Perfectionism vs. Professionalism

So here we are—at the end of a post in which I’ve been going on and on about ditching perfectionism. Don’t worry if you’re a slob! Don’t worry if your book has typos! Don’t worry if readers hate what you’ve written!

But.

Yeah, I know. As much as you may want to slay the perfidious perfectionism beast and kick ruthless self-judgment to the curb—you also want to produce clean copy, strong stories, and purring readers.

There’s a happy medium to be found between perfectionism at one end and apathy at the other. The difference is between caring and caring too much. It is the difference between perfectionism and professionalism. One is unreasonable and unattainable; the other is not. Perfectionism says any mistake is an unmitigated disaster. Professionalism, however, has different aims.

Professionalism wishes to create polished, excellent products (be it stories, blogs, or even public personae), but if it’s to succeed, it must incorporate the grace and flexibility to bounce back from its own mistakes. Perfectionism says any typo is the Black Spot. Professionalism says it’s one misplaced letter in a sea of millions. Professionalism fixes the mistake if it can and moves on if it can’t.

A mistake isn’t the end of the world (unless you’re Matthew Broderick). Learn to judge yourself with exactly the right amount of force. Be specific; never be melodramatic. And always be kind. Be cheerful.

You made a mistake. All that means is you must now fix it. It does not mean you are a failure or unlovable.

Nineteenth-century American writer Elbert Hubbard put it perfectly:

The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually fearing you will make one.

Dump the perfectionism that is weighing down both you and your writing. On the rebound, grab hold of the effervescent joy of not just making mistakes but loving both them and yourself for making them. It’s a grand view from way up there in the sky. Tpyos suddenly look very small indeed.

Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! Do you struggle with perfectionism in your writing? Tell me in the comments!

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