Reader,

There are two ways to be a perfectionist.

One is entirely focused on what other people think. This is understandable if you consider how we typically define the word "perfect." We think it means to be error-free. To be tpyo-free. To connect all the right dots in the right order. To stay inside the lines when we color. To win the argument unanimously, in a way that compels everyone to beam big smiles and declare, "You are absolutely right!"

This is what the experts call "maladaptive perfectionism." In more layman's terms, it's impossible perfectionism. Any time you think you've completed something "perfectly," you're wrong. You didn't. You just didn't notice what was off, what was mispelled, what failed to be universally persuasive.

If any of that triggered you, I'm not sorry. I'm deliberately bursting your bubble. Not to be mean. I just don't want you to settle for a way of being that is destined to leave you in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction.

What your inner voices never tell you—what they probably don't even realize—is that this type of perfectionism attracts readers who don't actually see you. People who don't bother to interact with what you're actually saying. I learned this from my friend Andee, who taught me that I was one of those readers. One of those annoying types who would helpfully reply to an email just to point out the typos. "None of that shit matters," she said. (Or something to that effect.)

A few months later, I wrote a LinkedIn post that went mildly viral. It was unexpected, and I was admittedly glowing. Until a former client popped in to my DMs to point out a typo in the fifth paragraph. That's when Andee's response clicked. Other people were engaging with what I'd actually said and generating real conversation. Meanwhile, this person thought it was important to highlight a slip of my fingers, without saying a word about anything I'd actually said.

I replied with a simple "thank you." And then I chose to leave the typo as it was.

Hear me clearly: I am not advocating mediocrity. In the right situations, I'm ruthless with my typos. (That comment is especially for my editing clients.) Giving up maladaptive perfectionism does not mean settling for subpar efforts.

The second way of being a perfectionist is to pursue excellence. "But how is that different?" you might ask. I'll respond with a question of my own: "Why do you need other people to tell you whether or not something is excellent?"

When we were children, we didn't need someone to tell us which stories were good and which ones weren't. We knew these truths by instinct. Our moms would hand us books, and we'd give them a try, only to leave them lying around the house in favor of what we actually wanted to read.

Were those books actually terrible? No, not necessarily. There are some fantastic books I'll never be able to understand, and the same assuredly goes for you. But they weren't good for me. And I knew that without needing anyone else to tell me so. In fact, no one else could come to that decision BUT me.

A lesser-known definition of perfect is a single word: "complete." If you ask me, it's a better one. Because while we can never guarantee that our work is utterly free from mistakes, we certainly can know when it is complete. It's why I prefer questions like, "Have you said what you wanted to say?" and "Do you believe what you've written?" and "Is there anything you're not saying because you're scared to say it?"

When your answers are "Yes," "Yes," and "No"—well, then your work is perfect.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank Ewert
Book Coach, Editor, and Recovering Tyop Snob
Author of Embrace Your Writer's Block and Blue Ice​