There she sits; the incurable perfectionist trying to write her very first blog entry. And no doubt about it; it has to be perfect. No room for error, she edits as she types, hitting backspace, criticizing as she goes. As a result, hours pass, but no more than two lines have survived the cruel war of deleting and editing. She wishes she could be ruthless, less afraid, since she’s the only one reading this right now. But even this knowledge is not enough to cut herself and the poor creative mind some slack. She is locked within herself, determined to excel at everything she attempts. But deep in her heart she knows she will continue to fail as long as she doesn’t find a way to let go, loosen up.

The incurable perfectionist; here she is, presenting herself to the world. She will write about her life, about turning thirty, about being miles away from the person she thought she would be at thirty, about her childhood under the African sun, how this childhood formed her in uncountable ways, about becoming a writer in an age where no one wants to read or buy books any more, about having a persisting writer’s block, how she herself is that writer’s block and how she knows this, but is not sure how to solve the problem.

She is the unprecedented producer of self- criticism, the self acclaimed loser she promised never to become. She is growing older, but feeling smaller. Seeing more, understanding less. She is wide eyed and frightened yet determined to change. She is a stranger, alone in being herself, in a world where everyone attempts to be just like everybody else.

She is different, just like you and I, like him and her.

She is the incurable perfectionist and this is her story.