How much does perfectionism creep into your writing habits? It can manifest in a variety of ways, but for me, it appears in three: resistance to change, over-explanation, and frustration with my writing abilities. Each of these can be solved in different ways. If I'm resistant to change, what I need is for someone to read my work and give me honest, actionable feedback. Odds are there are bits I'm not happy with, but I convince myself to keep them because I just don't want to take the time to make the changes. I tell myself I'm satisfied with it for now and I can polish it later. Well, later has to come eventually, and getting someone to help you do it will make it more palatable. Getting an outside perspective can also help me realize where I over-explain. And when I get frustrated with my writing talent, or lack thereof in the moment, I just need to take a breather, remind myself that I can fix it later, and read something else because I notice that my writing improves whenever I actually read other authors. I talk more about this in the new chapter I just uploaded to "Writing the Piano," so check it out and share your thoughts below. I'd love to hear some feedback, especially on what motivational content you need. I'll leave you with this question: does perfectionism creep into your writing, and if it does, how does it manifest?

The gray mini van’s tires crunched gravel as it came to a stop. Four college aged guys jumped out of the van. It was spring break and they were excited to begin the long awaited camping trip they had been planning for months. Loaded with camping gear and backpacks, the guys headed towards the woods. Skipper led the way, which wasn’t a surprise. Skipper was tall and built like a truck. He played on the college football team and wherever he went, it seemed natural for the others to follow along. Cal was close behind. Marty and Charlie walked side by side arguing about where the best place was going to be to make camp and then hike to the first geocache. As they neared the entrance to the trail, Skipper suddenly stopped. Cal was looking down and ran into him. Next to the entrance was a severe looking older woman with thin gray hair and a plain faded black dress. She was sitting on a rickety lawn chair and was flanked on either side by two dour children: a girl wearing a ragged striped pinafore and a boy with tattered brown shorts and a stained white t-shirt. Leaning on the woman’s knees was a cardboard sign with words scrawled on it that read, “Help Mother Wattles or have bad luck.” Mother Wattles, if that was her real name, stared at the boys. The children stared straight ahead. Skipper reached for his wallet and handed her $10. Mother Wattles produced a basket for the money and nodded her assent. Cal followed suit and dropped a $5 note in the basket. Charlie hastily grabbed the first bill his fingers touched in his wallet and gave $20. Mother Wattles nodded to both in turn. Marty handed her a pack of gum, minus the piece he was chewing. He tried to move on quickly but Mother Wattles extended her leg making him pause. Her eyes looked down at her sign, Marty’s eyes followed, then she looked at Marty. Marty looked at her sheepishly. He smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders but Mother Wattles’ steely gray eyes made him shiver. He lowered his eyes quickly and stepped around her leg,running after his friends.

Hello writers, In my time as a writer and in various writing circles online, I've come to understand that imposter syndrome is one of the most toxic and painful things that a writer can, and likely will, deal with, especially as a new writer. That's why I wrote a chapter about it in my new course. You can find this little chapter, "The First Obstacle Is You," in my brand new course "Writing the Piano: A Beginner's Guide to Writing." Please tell me what you think about it so I can expand on it and make it better in the future. And tell me what else you want to see. What do you struggle with as a (new) writer?

Bryce trudged through the overgrown forest path, weeds and shrubs ripping at his exposed knees. He cursed his stupid friends for running off ahead of him after he explicitly told them he had to stop to take a leak. But then again, it was just like them to run off and do something like that. It's how he knew they were friends. But it still annoyed him. A lot. He grimaced as he banged his exposed shin into a particularly small log jutting awkwardly onto the path. He also cursed his choice of attire. He heard a buzzing in his ear followed by a tickle on his neck. He instinctively smacked it and felt something squishy underneath. He pulled his hand back, flicking the dead thing aside as he did, then wiped the bloody smear on his cargo shorts. Surely he had to be getting closer to them. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________ "Are you bringing the tent or am I?" Ricky said as he stood in front of the Walmart outdoor aisle, his hands on his hips. "I'm bringing the beer," Tony replied from behind him, brandishing his finger guns excitedly. "I was asking Bryce," Ricky added flatly. "Uhh... I don't care," Bryce said distractedly, his face buried in his phone as his fingers moved on their own. Ryan flicked him lightly in the side of the head. "Hey," Bryce exclaimed. "Dude, she can wait five minutes to get a response," Ryan said coolly. "She's gonna have to anyway. Not like we're gonna have much service in Arfle Trails." Bryce groaned. "Why did I let you guys drag me out west camping again? You know I'm allergic to, like, five different kinds of grass." "Freshman year you told us you'd never been camping," Ricky answered. "We said we had to fix that. I love camping, Tony loves camping, and Ryan practically lived in Arfle Trails. You said you wanted to try, and we said we'd go there for spring break our senior year." "Yeah but that was before Sarah and I--" Bryce began. "Dude it's only gonna be a week," Ryan interrupted. "Relax. You'll see your girlfriend again, I promise."

Hadrian gripped the blade tightly. The steel still felt heavy in his youthful hands. He held it outstretched, the point resting on the kneeling prisoner's neck. "The tithe," the boy said calmly, his words devoid of emotion. The prisoner tilted his head and spat on the ground. "What tithe? You've bled us dry! There's nothing left to take! We don't even have dregs left after the last collection!" "And why should that matter to us?" Hadrian smiled cruelly. His eyes wander upwards, meeting his father's stern gaze. The Dark Lord Averaxx, clad in black steel armor, sat from on high, acting as arbiter over the trial. The Dark Lord's features softened at his protege's recognition. "If you failed to meet the tithe's requirement, well, you know what that means." The prisoner chuckled. "What ever happened to your conscience, boy? How old are you? Ten? Eleven? And yet you've carved such bloody swathes across this world. You--" Hadrian pressed the blade into the man's throat. Light rivulets of blood began dribbling down. "Silence. If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it." The prisoner exhaled slowly. "Your undoing will be a sight to behold. I can't believe you sold your soul for this rotten existence." The man felt the blade pressing deeper into his throat. He knew his time had come. "You'll burn for this. Forever." Hadrian glanced up at the Dark Lord. Averaxx nodded. The boy ran the sword through the peasant's throat. He collapsed with a shallow gurgle. Hadrian flicked the blade, scattering some of the running blood onto the stone floor. "Wulff, send a brigade to Elthrin. Tell them to seize all the livestock, and raid the houses for valuables," Hadrian commanded to the pallid man with an eyepatch standing next to Averaxx. "But tell them to spare the villagers. They can still be useful." He paused and furrowed his brow in contemplation. "On second thought, massacre them all. I doubt any would take kindly to having their property seized, and the last thing we need is unrest while the Kingdom of Luthre amasses troops on our border."