For the past few years I’ve focused on scaling back and simplifying my life. I had to. I was depressed, exhausted, and completely burned out.

Now I’ve got several things going on that I’m genuinely excited about. The challenge, for me, is moving forward without getting into that “all or nothing” headspace which has been my lifelong companion.

I make lists of everything I need and want to do. At first this feels great—it clears my head and lets me relax because I don’t have to worry about dropping any balls—it’s all there on paper where I can see it.

Then the lists undergo mitosis, sometimes often within seconds or minutes of being created. They subdivide from nice, clean rows of words into huge, unwieldy, overwhelming deposits of impossible.

I create and revise the lists again and again, knowing darn well there isn’t enough time for it all.

The best I’ve done so far is to realize that I have utterly ludicrous expectations of myself. I haven’t yet figured out how to stop myself from having them. I might have to accept that I never will.

So I’m (slowly, gradually) learning to do something that’s incredibly difficult for me.

I’m admitting—through clenched teeth because I soooooooo much don’t want it to be true—that I won’t ever accomplish everything that I want to.

Whew. I typed it. And my stomach just tied itself in a knot.

Because oh, my God, if I can’t accomplish everything, then I’m a failure! I’ll die with regrets! People won’t respect me! I will Be Less Than I Could Have Been! And that (*gasp!*) is a mortal sin against my life’s very purpose, whatever it is!

(Did I say something further up about all-or-nothing thinking?)

I will type it again, with emphasis.

I WILL NEVER ACCOMPLISH EVERYTHING I WANT TO DO IN MY LIFE.

I am mortal. I have a finite amount of time on this earth. I can only do so much. I need to breathe deep and let that fact sink deeply into my bones.

The first thing I experience when I do is an increased sense of desperation. If that’s true, then every single minute is precious! I shouldn’t waste any of it!

The second thing I feel is the arising of a quieter, steadier part of myself. She tells me that the real waste is allowing the time to fly by unnoticed as I obsess about the future. That if I accept that there is only so much I can accomplish, then I should be as fully present as I can in each moment, to make clear, intentional choices about how I spend my time.

She also says that living in the moment, as clichéd as that sounds, is the way to fully savor my life. This, she gently reminds me, also includes the not-so-pleasant feelings. Because even though chocolate and cheesecake taste mighty fine, I’d quickly get tired of them if that was all I ever ate.

We need the contrast to know when we have it good.

So I’m learning to catch myself in the act of engaging with old patterns—the ones that keep me fantasizing without taking action, making plans with unrealistic timelines, buying products that I keep hoping will be the “magic bullet” to solving this or that problem and not using them, and driving myself into the ground through obsessive workaholism and perfectionism.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed that I keep getting the same amount of frustrated even though I continue to expect different results. Funny, that.

So even if I simply notice that I’ve gone down my usual trail toward the murk and overwhelm, I’m trying to consider that a success, because you can’t change a pattern—especially one as ingrained as this—without first being aware of when you’re doing it.

Like I said at the beginning, there are no clear-cut answers here. But there is a growing awareness.

I’m thinking that’s a good first step.

Even though I’m very sad about not doing it this year myself, NaNoWriMo was one of the key things that taught me how to start fighting back against my perfectionism when I first participated in November of 2005.

I’ve done it three times since then, and successfully completed a horribly raw and unedited 50,000-word novel twice. And I don’t think I’ve ever found a better—or more fun—crash course in how to throw your inner critic out the window (or at least lock her/him in a closet for a while).

So it’s worth stating again how heartily I endorse this program. If you’ve never heard of it and you’re intrigued, or if you have and you’re on the fence about participating, NOW is the time . . . because it won’t come around again for another year!

If you have specific questions I can answer about NaNoWriMo for you, feel free to post them in the comments below or send me a private e-mail at the address in the very bottom line of my “About Me” page. I’ll make a point of checking that at least a few times today and tomorrow.

I also want to make two offers for anyone who’d like to get involved . . .

If you do NaNoWriMo this November and would like a personal cheerleader, I’d be happy to be your NaNoBuddy via e-mail. You can send me your word counts if you want to keep yourself gently . . . ac-count-able (heh). Or you can just check in with me and tell me how it’s going, and I can reply with hearty cheering-you-on messages and any advice I can offer.

If you’d like to be part of this adventure of literary and creative abandon, but don’t want to actually, you know, write a novel, consider making a tax-deductible donation to the Office of Letters and Light, the parent non-profit which runs NaNoWriMo and other beneficial programs—many for children.

There’s something in it for you if you do, hopefully. A very good friend of mine is doing NaNo (again!) and she’s personally raising funds to get into a special Write-a-Thon here in San Francisco on November 22. If she makes her stated goal, she will not only get in herself, but she’ll be able to bring one guest.

That will be me.

If she raises enough to qualify us both to attend the third annual “Night of Writing Dangerously,” I promise to blog from there and give you an insider’s view of the unbridled thrills and excitement. Maybe I can even take a little videocam, record a few brief interviews with other writers, and post them here. (I haven’t included a video in a blog post yet! Hmmm . . .)

Oh, if you’d like to donate, you might want the link:

Donate to my writerly friend’s NaNoWriMo fundraising page here! Just click the link and then the “Sponsor Me” button (after reading her lovely page, of course).

So there you have it, ladies and gents.

A fantastic month-long chance to play with imperfection begins tomorrow.

You can join in if you’re inspired to.

If you do, you can take me up on my offer to be your NaNoBuddy.

And/or you can donate to the cause and hopefully get me in the door to blog from the Write-a-Thon itself.

Or none of the above. Of course it’s up to you. But I couldn’t resist one more reminder that NaNoWriMo 2009 starts at MIDNIGHT TOMORROW! )

It really was a great idea, if I do say so myself. My blog is about overcoming the kind of perfectionism that gets in our way by telling us that what we’re doing isn’t good enough. National Novel Writing Month (which I’ve written about before), is a month of hands-on practice in blasting straight through that mindset with wild writerly abandon.

So I was going to blog my entire NaNo novel publicly, right here, during the month of November.

Practice Makes Imperfect and NaNoWriMo—what a natural combination!

I got in touch with the organizers, and they were going to feature me in one of their daily Q&A spots. I would get to publicly practice what I preach in a very visible way, and maybe turn some people on to this annual event that I love so much in the process. We could cheer each other on, inspire each other, and keep that flow of raw, gloriously unedited words gushing.

Except then I heard an inner warning siren go off. It was followed by a voice:

“Wait, you’re the person who says she’s finally coming to grips with the fact that she can’t do it all, no matter how much she wants to. Who says she’s tired of trying to be superhuman. And who is already having enough trouble handling all the things on her plate now. And you’re thinking that you can manage to write 50,000 words next month on top of all that?”

Damn.

The disturbing truth is that once you embark on the path of self-awareness, it gets harder and harder to be in denial. Even when you really, really want to be.

So today I’m here to tell you that I will not be doing National Novel Writing Month this year.

And that makes me incredibly sad.

It would have been so joyous! Not to mention good for web traffic! I would have gotten exposure to many thousands of people around the world who do NaNoWriMo and visit its website, and who might have seen my Q&A feature and checked out my blog! I could have possibly been inspirational to people who were thinking about trying NaNo this year, or who were doing it but flagging in their enthusiasm, just by writing my novel publicly! And maybe some of them would have become regular readers or subscribers here at Practice Makes Imperfect! So many exclamation points that I will now miss out on!

Not to mention that I simply adore doing NaNo each November.

It is actually harder for me to not do it than to do it and drive myself into the ground. The latter has been (until recently) my modus operandi. I know very well how to pummel myself into submission over a goal that I’ve arbitrarily decided I have to achieve.

It’s much harder to admit that the world will keep on turning and that I will keep on breathing without my writing a novel next month. It’s so difficult to allow myself to just drop something that would prevent me from the self-care that I need to focus on right now.

Which is why I’m letting NaNo go this year. I need the practice in saying no to things I want so that I can say yes to things I want even more. Like health. And sanity.

BUT . . .

If you have ever wanted to write a novel, I cannot recommend NaNoWriMo highly enough. Here’s an excerpt from (again) my own previous blog post about it:

What makes the program so effective? It allows you to barrel right past your critical mind. You have to write so much so fast that quality concerns fly out the window—you just don’t have time for them. “I can edit later” becomes your mantra. And the amazing thing is that once you push past your initial resistance, get into the flow, and establish a daily writing routine, you realize it’s completely feasible to write 50,000 words or more in a month if you just keep writing and don’t overthink it.

It’s fun, it’s intense, and it’s probably the best training program for recovering perfectionists I’ve ever found.

If there is ANY part of you that is saying (perhaps very quietly) “yes!” right now, then I heartily endorse NaNoWriMo and suggest that you check out their website right away. Because this year’s novel-writing adventure begins at midnight this Saturday night.

If you decide to do it, I’d love to know so that I can holler and whoop and cheer you on!

I’ve never been a packrat. By most people’s standards, I live quite simply and don’t have a lot of “stuff.” I have learned, though, that a lot of the material I do accumulate is like sea wrack, washed up against the shores of my living space by the waves of projects I’ve started and not completed.

Oh, I’ve tried to complete them—most of them, anyway. Usually by organizing the heck out of them first. I’ve kept lists of projects. I’ve whittled those projects down to bite-sized tasks, devised methods to streamline and schedule those tasks, and created whole systems to track my progress so that I could have the joy of crossing things off my to-do list. I’ve spent hours, days and weeks blasting through those to-do lists like dynamite in an all-out effort to finish as many projects and tasks as quickly I could, so that I could have the simple, uncluttered life I crave.

It never, ever occurred to me that I could simplify my life by eliminating things without finishing them.

In late 2001 I fulfilled a long-held dream and began to learn to play the Indian tabla drums. I took lessons for five years from one of the world’s acknowledged best tabla players, Pandit Swapan Chaudhuri. I adored the classes, and Swapanji is a wonderful, patient and gently humorous teacher whom I miss deeply . . . because I haven’t taken lessons now for over two years.

It broke my heart, but I had to stop for my own benefit. I took the classes far too seriously, and I felt such a sense of obligation that the lessons became more of a chore than anything else. I was feeling enormous stress over the fact that I couldn’t practice as much as I wanted to, and I thought I wasn’t doing justice to either the money I was spending on the classes or, even more important to me, the beautiful musical tradition of the tablas.

At the end of it all (and I still choke up just writing that), I was left with five years’ worth of cassette tapes. Tapes? Yes, because we learned so much so quickly each week that Swapanji allowed us to record the classes. I would come home from class, play through the tape, write down the new composition we’d learned, and refer to it as I practiced throughout the week or refreshed my memory of it later.

These tapes held pure gold. They contained the teachings of a living legend, instructing very small groups of students in a tiny room. Swapanji played each new composition for us. He gave us individual attention and advice. He gave encouragement, sometimes talked about the history of the tablas, and often told funny stories.

But 90% of the tapes were filled with us students, ineptly tapping and pounding away as we attempted to stuff each new kaida, rela, tukra and chakradhar into our short-term memories. This was nothing I would ever want to listen to again.

Once I’d finish transcribing each week’s tape into my permanent notes, I’d save it with the intention of extracting the 10% of the material with real value for future reference. So when I stopped taking classes, I had a gigantic box filled with five years’ worth of cassettes. I consoled myself with the thought that since I was (*sniffle*) no longer learning anything new, I would finally have time to deal with them all.

It was an Enormous Project. Just getting the (sometimes undated) tapes into chronological order took me a long time. The next step was to listen to roughly 200-250 hours of class tapes through an analog-to-digital converter, and sift through the dirt of the vast, useless majority of the recordings to find the tiny nuggets of gold where Swapanji was actually talking and teaching. I would then need to save those smaller files, date-label them, catalog their contents, and burn them to CD for safekeeping.

I really thought I could do it. In my spare time, outside of my full-time job and my many other projects and commitments. I expected myself to. This unfinished project weighed on my consciousness for two full years. All unfinished things have an oppressive weight to them, but this one was extra-heavy. After all, those tapes were priceless! They deserved to be saved, if not for me, then for posterity!

But slowly I realized that posterity didn’t much care. That other people took these classes, too. That I wasn’t personally responsible for being the caretaker of the material I’d learned. That Swapanji had been recorded—professionally—hundreds of times over the decades.

That I really, truly didn’t have to do this project at all. Ever.

So . . . I threw away the box.

Then I cried.

And then I was swept with the most profound feeling of relief I’d felt in years.

How odd that my biggest lesson came when I stopped taking classes.

I am also a certified master of the to-do list. Hand me twenty pages of tasks, projects and agenda items, and I can slice ‘em and dice ‘em any way you please. I’ve done this with my own lists hundreds of times.

My only problem seems to be with doing the stuff on them.

Even as a child, I carried with me a vague sense of unease about all the things I wanted to do but wasn’t getting around to. (How early does Perfectionitis nauseus set in, anyway? Sheesh.)

Then I learned to make lists. At first they were very simple: Homework. Things to Do. Write it down, do it, cross it off.

Ohhh, yes. The flesh-tingling thrill of crossing things off. There’s no high quite like it. The only thing is, it’s kind of like the old joke about the guy who keeps beating his head against the wall because it feels so good when he stops. You have to keep adding to the lists in order to have more items to cross out.

At first this was no problem. As a classic overachiever, I really was able to plow through many, many things quickly and well. I was invariably praised for this, so that pattern was reinforced strongly. Work hard, earn praise, feel worthy. Want more praise and feelings of self-worth? Work harder.

I became a human doing instead of a human being.

Then came the myriad ways to keep track of it all. I’m low-tech by choice, so I don’t go in for all the electronic gadgetry, but my personal planner addiction began the day I discovered existence of the Day Runner almost two decades ago.

No system has worked for me consistently, though. Even when they gently nudge me into methods of prioritization (ABC-123, context lists, or what have you), I’m still overwhelmed by my own lists because I can’t discriminate. I feel that if I think of it, I have to do it, and that I’m perpetually falling behind in a race I can’t win.

Over the past couple of years, an internal war has raged within me between my Inner Drill Sergeant, who sounds like Anthony Robbins on speed, and my slowly-emerging Self-Nurturer, who tells me that if I don’t learn to ease up and take better care myself, I may very well die. (As in, you know, sooner than I’m meant to.)

Lately the war seems to be escalating. I think it’s because my Self-Nurturer is finally starting to make some solid inroads into my consciousness. The Drill Sergeant is feeling seriously threatened. And I’m sitting in between them, trying to broker a peace and convince myself I’m not developing a split personality.

But some helpful realizations have emerged, too. One of the best is . . .

The power of stopping. Really stopping.

Being who I am, I’ve always seen relaxation, meditation, visualization, and other forms of stress release as just more items for the to-do list. Which automatically brings up resistance, because I already have far too much on the list already. (How am I supposed to fit a conscious relaxation session in between getting home from work, feeding the cats, having something for dinner, running that load of laundry I’ve been putting off for two days, taking a walk to get some fresh air and exercise, working on the five small tasks and two major projects I’ve decided I need to take care of tonight, answering a few time-sensitive e-mails, and taking a shower before collapsing into bed so I can wake up to another overwhelming tomorrow?)

When methods of de-stressing become just another series of items to check off my lists, I’ve learned I’m never going to get around to them.

But I’ve discovered that when I allow myself to truly stop—to rest for a while because my body, mind and spirit want it, not because it’s an agenda item to be ticked off—I do experience genuine relief.

It’s a subtle distinction, and I’m not even sure I’m expressing it adequately.

My habitual way feels more like:

“Get home from work—check. Feed cats—check. Go upstairs and sit on bed; close eyes and do creative visualization for 15 minutes—check. Start load of laundry—check.”

My new way, which isn’t a solid habit yet but which I’m achieving more often now, feels like:

“Hi there, cats! Can I hang out with you while you eat? **Scritch, scritch** (((PURRRRRR))). Okay, upstairs. Stretching out on my bed because it was a demanding day at the office . . . ahh, yes. This floating in between awakeness and a slight doze feels wonderful. General sense of time passing, but no looking at the clock. >>>really stopping everything; a feeling of timelessness<<< Mmm, now I feel ready to engage with the world again. Wow! Look—it’s only been 20 minutes! Better go start that laundry . . .”

Gentler, Nicer. More peaceful. When I can actually manage this type of thing.

I’d be lying if I said I’m getting as many things done this way, but you know what? I’m getting all the important things done.

With jottings to myself scratched on sticky notes, more often than with my latest “productivity system.”

Though I did walk past the Franklin Covey store at lunch yesterday . . .

I suspect the war isn’t over yet.

My friend is known for his sense of humor, but then again, as a classic overachiever, maybe there was something beneficial in there for me. I opened the book.

And closed it less than an hour later. Like I said, it’s a very slim volume. The author would probably say that it’s exactly as long as necessary, and not a word longer.

It left me . . . disturbed. Because it’s a funny book, but in the way that Dilbert cartoons are funny, being only slight exaggerations (hmm, perhaps I’m being too charitable there) on work environments that really do exist.

Take, for example, the “Ten Principles of Underachievement.” I particularly like #3 – Expectations lead to misery. Author Ray Bennett writes:

It would be nice to believe that setting the bar high always helps, but it doesn’t. Most people start on an exercise program looking for great improvement, only to quit out of disappointment. If only they had learned to avoid expectations . . .

Ouch. Nail hit squarely on the head.

He also talks about the law of diminishing returns. In any undertaking, there comes a point where even if the spirit is willing, the flesh is gasping for rest. The mind goes into lockdown from sheer overload. At that point, you start getting less and less accomplished for every bit of extra effort you apply. Continuing to push will result in burnout, injury, or worse.

Slow down, Bennett says. Lower the bar. Good enough is good enough.

Of course, my Inner Drill Sergeant scoffs at this notion. “Are you insane, woman? How can you respect yourself if you deliberately do less than you’re capable of?”

I’m getting better at scoffing right back. Some days I can look my Drill Sergeant right in the face and say, “You’re only one part of me, and I don’t have to listen to you all the time anymore.”

Other days I still snap a smart salute, spin on my heel, and march away to do whatever the Sergeant has told me to. But at least when that happens, I’m getting better at noticing it. On good days, I even refrain from judging myself for it.

It takes a long time to break a pattern this entrenched. Compassion for myself seems like a good way to go.

So I’m experimenting with doing less. Deliberately. Just a little, here and there.

• Not always being the first to volunteer whenever a task comes up at work, because after more than three years on the job, I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m proving what a good worker I am every single day.
• Not balancing my checkbook for the first time in my life. (Miraculously, I’ve survived this.)
• Not trying to cook (which usually ends up as a late-night run for junk food), but allowing myself to order takeout instead.
• Not keeping up with my elaborate personal planning system; just writing down brief to-do lists on Post-It notes as they occur to me.

The Underachiever’s Manifesto is a lopsided little treatise. It doesn’t take into account that there are some situations in which you really do need to strive for perfection—for instance, I don’t think I’d hand the book to an air traffic controller just going on-shift.

I also don’t believe that pushing yourself is always a bad thing. I’m proud that I’ve run three marathons, for instance, and I never would have accomplished that without going way out of my comfort zone. I think that every now and then, choosing a really difficult goal and going all-out to achieve it can really be inspiring, and it can teach you some valuable lessons about what you’re capable of.

But this book definitely got me thinking.

What about you? Are there areas in your life where you’ve experimented with turning things down a notch? What happened when you did? Or maybe there’s a situation where you’d like to try that approach. Where can you do less and possibly gain more? And what would you gain?

Feel free to comment below. I’d love to have a conversation about this . . .

Where there is perfection there is no story to tell.

—Ben Okri

Perfectionism is rooted in feelings of shame and inadequacy. We’re afraid that we are somehow not good enough, not worthy enough, to be loved and respected simply by being our natural selves. There are many reasons why this happens, but the upshot is that we feel the constant need to justify our own existence to ourselves and others. Whatever we have achieved thus far is never enough; we must prove ourselves over and over and over and over again.

Talk about a recipe for stress, depression, and burnout.

An article in Psychology Today entitled “Pitfalls of Perfectionism” (March 1, 2008) states:

But the biggest problem with perfection may be that it masks the real secret of success in life. Success hinges less on getting everything right than on how you handle getting things wrong.

What if we were taught that from early childhood? Wouldn’t it have been great if our school grades weren’t based on how well we scored on tests, but on how gamely we worked back through the problems again to figure out what we’d done wrong and how to do them correctly the next time? Or if our parents had asked us how we felt or what we’d learned when our softball team lost the game, rather than saying things like, “Too bad, better luck next time,” planting the unspoken and therefore insidious conclusion that losing was to be considered a 100% negative experience?

What if we were taught that it was (*gasp!*) perfectly okay to express our unhappy emotions, and that if we learned to do this appropriately most of the time, without attacking others in the process, no one would stop loving us?

The quotation continues:

This is where creativity, passion, and perseverance come into play. . . . you don’t make people powerful by pushing them to be perfect but by allowing them to become passionate about something that compels their interest.

When we are very young, everything is play. We don’t worry about failing because we’re so excited about the trying. We haven’t yet learned that we’re supposed to think of ourselves as being on trial before the world.

Think back to your childhood and the first time you rode a bike. Or jumped off the high dive. My guess is that the giddiness and excitement you felt outweighed any bumping-into-curbs or belly-flopping that you might have done. You didn’t do it perfectly, but you had a blast making the attempt. And because you had so much fun, you did it again, and again, until you improved. But the improving wasn’t the goal. The fun was.

So here is the reason why I’m saying that it’s vital to screw things up once in a while. You must learn that it is not the end of the world. That you can recover, and keep trying, and get better.

You must learn failure-resiliency. You need to know, deep in your bones, that you can always bounce back.

And maybe even have some fun in the process.

For any innate talent or learned skill, there can only be one best-in-the-world (or school, or company, or whatever) at a given time. And let’s face it—chances are pretty high you’re not it. That’s not a put-down; it’s simply me making a guess based on the odds without knowing exactly who is reading this.

But what if I’m wrong about you? What if you really are the best at Whatever-It-Is? Even then there’s no surety, because there’s always the chance—pretty much the certainty—that someone will improve on your best performance some day.

So if your sense of security comes from being king or queen of the hill, you’ll either be disappointed when you don’t get there, or when some newcomer knocks you off your throne.

If your sense of self-worth is synonymous with your performance, you will never, ever feel safe.

Now what happens if you allow yourself to be—and appear—fallible? A few pretty nifty things:

• The intense pressure is suddenly off. You can relax a little. Or even (shhh!) a lot, if you want or need to.
• You now have room for improvement. (If you score 100% right from the get-go, how can you ever do better than that?)
• People will not expect 120% of your effort all the time, so there is leeway when you’re operating at less-than-normal capacity for any reason.
• People will feel connected to you because they’ll feel you’re one of them, not up on top of (or trying to climb) some kind of pedestal.

Now I’m not arguing for deliberate mediocrity here. I’m not saying that you should be lazy, or that you should stop setting and striving toward goals. That’s probably not in your genetic makeup anyway. After all, here you are at a blog about perfectionism, right?

All I’m saying is that if you can surrender your need to appear so unremittingly perfect, to yourself as well as to others, you’ll probably be able to loosen up and enjoy the ride a whole lot more.

You’ll also get to define success and happiness by your own internal yardstick rather than society’s external benchmarks.

Granted, this takes practice. A lot of it. You can’t shuck all of your conditioning with a single shrug of the shoulders.

Hence the name of this blog. ;o)

Now it’s time for an admission. I’m really, really bad at being gentle with myself.

Specifically, I’ve been in a physical purging phase (no, not bulimia, just uncluttering) for a handful of months now, and at times I’ve been downright brutal about it. And you know what? Mostly it’s felt really, really good.

So I guess the last one was the “closure” post, and this one is the “disclosure” post. As in, full disclosure on my part. Because no matter what I said last time, and no matter what I say in the future, sometimes just digging in and going full bore until you’ve got some tangible results in one intense session of something can be extremely satisfying.

What’s been hard has been dealing with my own limited stores of energy, and that’s where the patience and compassion have come in. I can’t always go full bore like I used to. When I was in my teens, twenties, and early 30s I could burn the candle at more ends than the candle had, and to hell with the consequences. Well, now I’m living with the consequences. I’ve learned you can’t ignore your body completely, because it will let you know in no uncertain terms when it’s had enough of your disrespect. I’ve learned (well, okay, I’m learning) to ride the waves of energy as they come; to be grateful when I have enough to get things done, and to be at least somewhat at peace when I just need to stop and rest for a while.

But the stuff? The physical stuff? Oh, I’m getting rid of it right and left. I’m being as responsible as I can, taking bags of clothing and usable household items to Goodwill, but I’m also making myself just toss things. Sure, maybe I could get a few bucks for, say, that piece of old concert memorabilia on eBay, but to be honest it’s just not worth my time, effort, and energy. Energy has become currency to me, and I sometimes have to be even more thrifty with it than I am with money. (Ooh, ooh—I could write a blog post about that. Let me know if you’d like me to write a blog post about that.)

Anyway, back to brutality. (Now there’s something I never expected to type in my blog.) During any of my recent decluttering sessions, I’d pick up the next thing in the area I was working on and ask myself, “Is this something that you love? Not just like, but truly cherish?” If not, I’d ask, “Is this something you use with any regularity?” If the answer to both questions was no, the item was history. Okay, there some exceptions, such as paycheck stubs, tax returns, and other papers that I sort of have to keep on file for a certain amount of time, and a few projects that I still intend to do (no, really!) and simply haven’t gotten around to yet. And books. My biggest gazingus pin. I’ve learned the folly of getting rid of books. It doesn’t work—they find a way back.

So if you find yourself ready for an intense bout of Whatever-Clearing, here are some tips I can offer you based on what has worked for me.

Clearing physical possessions? Give them the Active Ownership Test.

Active ownership is different than passive ownership. Passive ownership is keeping your two-sizes-too-small jeans in the very back closet where you can’t see them, so they are there if you ever lose the weight. Active ownership is hanging them in full view as a motivator to do your daily workout. (Not that you should—that’s just an example off the top of my head.) Passive ownership is storing a box of Grandma’s heirloom jewelry on a shelf somewhere. Active ownership is keeping a few pieces in your jewelry box and wearing them occasionally, with fond thoughts of her when you do. Passive ownership is using your weight bench as a clothing rack and plant stand. Active ownership is picking up those barbells and dumbbells on at least a semi-regular basis and doing some lifting.

The Active Ownership Test fits into the concept of wabi-sabi. Does the thing you’re considering have great value for you, such that you truly cherish its utility, uniqueness and presence in your life, or is it just taking up space? I’m not advocating asceticism, or tossing out things you really will regret later, but it’s important to recognize that our possessions take up energy in our psyches as well as space in our homes and offices. If you’re only passively owning something, you might want to take a close look at it and decide whether it’s worth the space and energy needed to maintain it. Letting go of things does not make you a bad, disrespectful, wasteful, or ungrateful person if it’s truly time to let them go.

Working on your to-do lists? Give them the Rolaids Test.

Yes, I just made this up right now, because I’m a word geek who likes inventing acronyms. And yes, it’s kinda silly.

That activity you’re considering. Does it have a ROLAIDS (Realistic Or Likely Action I’ll Do Soon) in its pocket? If it does, leave it on your to-do list. If not, do one of two things with it. Either put it on a separate “someday/maybe” list (concept courtesy of David Allen’s book Getting Things Done) so that it’s written down where you can review it later but you don’t have to waste energy by having to remember it, or drop it from your list entirely. Ahhhh! How do you spell relief? )

In either case (physical items or to-dos—and yes, those can and often do overlap), an intense session of Going Through Your Stuff can have fast-acting, stomach-easing results. But use with caution! This method works so powerfully that it can sometimes trigger unintended trauma. When in doubt, test it on a small portion of your home or office first, wait 24 hours, and observe the results. Proceed carefully. Less invasive methods may be indicated.

And always consult your decluttering doctor before beginning any new exorcizing program. Here are a few I recommend highly because I’ve personally worked with them all:

Lisa Baldwin of Divine Order
Jennifer Hofmann of Inspired Home Office
Shannon Wilkinson of Your Life – Inspired

And remember—if you can—that being gentle with yourself also works wonders.

Or so they say.

In my case, it was writing a novel.

Hardly unique–someone once told me that every other person you know dreams of writing a book, and I’d be surprised if it’s that few. But it’ll do to illustrate what I’m talking about. Since, you know, I’ve never tried to climb Mount Everest or anything.

I somehow learned to read at a very young age, and progressed rapidly from Clifford the Big Red Dog to Brave New World. Which I read when I was about 11 years old because I thought it had a cool cover, completely unaware that I was picking up a classic.

Science fiction and fantasy have always been my genres of choice, and even as a teenager I would sometimes think, “Hey, I could write this stuff!” But in my cocky self-assurance I never actually tried, except for a few false starts which never went beyond three pages. That was okay, because I “knew” that I could do it, and would when I was ready.

I’ve been ready for almost 20 years now. And I’ve tried to write a novel enough times to recognize my youthful hubris for what it was. Writing is damn hard, and writing something so lengthy is damn hard multiplied by 1,000.

When I finally conceded the level of difficulty involved, I was well and truly humbled, and I inwardly prostrated myself at the feet of all novel-writers past and present in abject apology. (Well, at the feet of the good novel-writers, at least. A woman has her pride.) The fire of my writing desire was banked, though not fully extinguished.

Then I discovered NaNoWriMo.

NaNo-huh??? Allow me to explain by way of a very short story.

The difficulty I’ve always had is with constructing a plot. Intriguing characters with rich backstories I can create by the dozen. I can do world-building pretty well, too, thinking through all the what-ifs of a culture I’ve created in my imagination. But to come up with an interesting narrative trajectory for my characters to travel? Nuh-uh. Never could do it in a way that kept me interested, let alone a potential posse of readers.

So one day about four years ago I was trawling the web for books on plot construction and I found one called No Plot? No Problem!Intrigued, I ordered it, only to discover that it wasn’t about plot construction per se. Rather, it described, in author Chris Baty’s hysterically funny prose, this odd-sounding event called National Novel Writing Month. Or NaNoWriMo for short.

This worldwide event happens every November, and you can join and participate through the Internet as well as organize and/or attend local write-ins if you live near other WriMos.

I joined, and wrote my first novel that November.

On day #1 I blocked so hard on the fantasy novel I tried to write that I simply could not move forward. I wasn’t ready to be quite thatimperfect yet. But I still reaaaaally wanted to do NaNo (as we affectionately call it), so on day #2 I switched gears and started a story about, amazingly enough, a woman about my age living in San Francisco, not liking her job, and looking for a career change. I guess it’s true we write what we know.

No matter—I finished the novel. All 50,000+ words of it. (50K is the goal at which you can officially finish and declare yourself a winner.)

If you want to write a book but your inner perfectionist has been keeping you from doing it like mine did for so long, I can’t recommend NaNoWriMo highly enough. You can do it on your own at any time, of course, but the support you get by doing it with everyone else in November makes the wait worthwhile.

What makes the program so effective? It allows you to barrel right past your critical mind. You have to write so much so fast that quality concerns fly out the window—you just don’t have time for them. “I can edit later” becomes your mantra. And the amazing thing is that once you push past your initial resistance, get into the flow, and establish a daily writing routine, you realize it’s completely feasible to write 50,000 words or more in a month if you just keep writing and don’t overthink it.

It’s fun, it’s intense, and it’s probably the best training program for recovering perfectionists I’ve ever found.

Maybe I’ll see you on www.nanowrimo.org this November.