Perfectionism is a type of arrogance, I’ve decided. One expects perfection from oneself because they’ve tied their work to their ego. They see in their work a reflection of themselves, and can’t stand it if that reflection isn’t as perfect as they want themselves to be. Every way in which their work falls short mirrors their own shortcomings, an imperfect job is a portrait of their own incompetence — when one thinks in this way.
Eric Hoffer said that the true creator creates something that is entirely separable from himself. A petty author will leave territorial markings all over their work; the work becomes a monument to the ego. This is the wrong way. The right way is to build something that is separate and complete, something that stands even if your name is removed from it.
A good example would be all the sayings and expressions we repeat endlessly, to which no author can be attributed. These linguistic nuggets capture such a permanent part of the human experience that they’ve taken on a life of their own as units of wisdom, no attribution needed. They’re so important that they’ve entered the public domain. The people who came up with these sayings created real work: something useful that exists independently of themselves. The work may not be perfect (“perfect” is theoretical) but near enough for humans. It is not a reflection of them. They may have done nothing else noteworthy in their lives. The work is separable.
Perfectionism is ego. Ego does not belong in your work. If you never feel that you deserve much praise when you get things right, you deserve no condemnation when your work falls short. At most, your work product is a snapshot of your skill and effort at that time — and to some degree your luck.
What should your goal be, then? Not the product of the work but the work itself. We like to think that we enjoy the beautiful, finished product — but we enjoy the beautiful, finished product because of the work we put into it. Also, that joy fades with time and the product is eventually taken for granted. The only enduring joy you can return to again and again is the work.
Of course, we all eventually become decrepit and senile and can no longer do the work. That’s when death is close. But that’s a topic for another entry.