Dear Reader, I Wish I Could Give You Perfect
What lies underneath the perfectionist streak
Dear Reader,
I wish I could give you perfect. I wish I could use all the right words — the best words — and string them all together in the most extraordinary, unexpected ways. I wish I could seamlessly segue from one paragraph to the next. I wish I could put every sentiment, every section in its rightful place — so that your journey with me may never feel abrupt or confusing or unnecessarily difficult. I wish I could spot every darling and kill every last one of them. I wish I could edit this a little bit more; I want nothing more than to be sure that I have respected the time you have given me.
The things I write about matter a great deal to me. They are, as written in a post-it right in front of me, “ideas that I burn for”. But why I’m so precious when it comes to writing them is less about my affinity for them than my conviction that there is at least one other person out there who needs to hear them. Someone who has gone through or is going through the same thing. Someone who can’t help but feel she’s alone and wants to feel understood. Someone who wants to put some kind of form into her hard-to-describe feelings. Someone seeking comfort. Connection. Or a place, as Emma Watson said, where you can go rest and feel… held. Someone who, even…
