Perfectionism Ate Me (Again)

The more I didn’t write, the more I didn’t write – until it seemed impossible to write again. But here I am. Because I’ve faced perfectionism down before, and that’s what this blog is about. Facing it down.

I have so many ideas about how I should write, what I should write. It’s hard to make them come alive. They’re perfect in my imagination, they’re easy when they’re just voices in my head. Writing it down is different, unless I write it in the moment I come up with it. Which is rare.

Showering. Dancing. Massage. Meditation. Swimming.

These are activities that are my inspiration. They wash off old thinking, old feeling and old skin. They give me a blank slate, a sense of pleasure and relaxation, a release from tension. Thanks to them I come up with new ideas; thanks to them perfectionism loosens up its iron grip. I want relaxation – I want to be as free-spirited like a blooming flower, as effortless as the wind. (although there are powerful forces behind all things effortless). Freedom and peace – I will strive for, I will feel and walk towards.

This is imperfect. And it’s meant to be. It’s after midnight, and I’m going to dance – just one song, just to feel it, just to be it, just to. I’m getting up pretty early. But I don’t want to sleep without having that one dance. I love myself too much to disappoint.

Why I support pretty much any strike by pretty much anyone, anywhere, about anything

Nathaniel Tapley


If you live in or around London, or work there, or know anyone who does, your social media will have been drenched in anger at the Tube strike this morning, along with the occasional voice popping up with: “I was saying Boo-urns.”

Anyway, many people’s first instinct is to blame the strikers (even if they couched in terms of support for nurses / teachers / anyone except tube drivers), so I thought I’d explain why mine isn’t.

To begin, I must declare an interest: I intend to use the Night Tube. I’d rather the person in control of the metal drunk-ferry burrowing its way through subterranean London at peak suicide time felt well-rested and recompensed and able to concentrate on getting me home without being dead.

They’re actually fighting for your pay and conditions

Wait, what? No they’re not? I don’t earn that much.

In a country where more…

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