Working to Completion, Not to Perfection

 A few weeks ago, I finally released my first poetry book. I’d been sitting on piles of hand-written drafts for years—pieces written in the cracks of long days, little bursts of truth I never quite knew what to do with. All I had to do was gather them, listen for the theme they’d already been singing to me, and trust the voice I’d spent a lifetime cultivating. I chose romantic poetry as the thread, then added a framing device to tie it all together. Aka, a gimmick. Not a dirty word in my world. It’s the sparkle that helps the seams hold.

Around the same time, I tracked the final vocal for the first side of my upcoming album, Prophecies and Promises. I sat with a mixing engineer friend and asked, almost sheepishly, “Do you think it’s ready to go to mix?” He laughed. “This sounds amazing. What else could it possibly need?”

The joy I felt was like a full-body exhale. I didn’t need to labor over it anymore. I didn’t need to tinker. I just needed to trust what we’d made. It felt, oddly enough, like the third trimester of pregnancy. (Suspend disbelief—I’m a childless lesbian. But the metaphor still works: the thing was coming, ready or not.)

That trust, the ability to let go and let the work stand is something I’ve learned to respect over time. As artists, we talk a lot about perfection, but we don’t always talk about what it costs us. I’ve come to believe that chasing perfection often keeps us from what we really need: momentum.

I see it in my students all the time. Perfectionism rarely looks like excellence. It looks like hesitation. Like avoidance. Like the echo of something cruel a teacher or parent once said. I call these creative scars—marks left by careless words or offhanded jokes that still shape how we see ourselves. They slow us down. They convince us that something rough or unfinished is shameful, rather than essential.

Here’s the paradox. I’m a maximizer. I create every day. I write every day. I assume most of what I make will never see the light of day, so nothing is too precious. That attitude works in direct conflict with perfectionism—and that’s exactly why it serves me, and why I teach it. I play by the rule of excess. I’m just looking for a couple of shiny pennies in a pile. Perfectionists want to protect the one thing they’ve polished. But maximizers? They know the value is in the volume and the rhythm..

One of the books I most often recommend is The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown. It’s a gentle reminder that vulnerability is not just part of the process—it is the process. When we create, we aren’t just putting ourselves on the page or the stage. We’re also learning to live with being seen. Read that again.

I’ve had to remind myself of this in my own work. When I recently rebuilt the WiseJack Marketing website, I bumped up against the business-world phrase “minimum viable product.” As someone who’s spent thousands of hours honing my craft as a musician, that language has always rubbed me the wrong way. It sounds like settling. Like sanding down the spirit of something just to get it out the door.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

I’m not a minimalist. I’m a maximizer. I don’t just want something done. I want it to matter. I want the tone to land, the words to feel honest, the rhythm to hold. My issue isn’t with imperfection. It’s with inauthenticity. I can handle rough edges. I can even love them. What I can’t do is fake it.

And yet, I’ve also seen what happens when I wait too long. When there’s no structure, no deadline, no one waiting on the other side—it floats. It fades. Structure isn’t a cage for creativity. It’s the frame that keeps it from vanishing altogether. Deadlines, outlines, and even weird self-imposed rules aren’t limitations. They’re invitations to finish.

So, while “minimum viable product” still doesn’t roll off my tongue, I’ve come to see the value in the concept. Sometimes viable is valuable. Especially if it reflects who I actually am right now. Not the perfect future version, but the real one. That’s enough. And sometimes, it’s everything.

Some things are planted on purpose, like the wildflower seeds I just dusted across the fields of my finca. I’m hoping they take. But the tulips that show up every spring? I didn’t plant those. Someone else did, years ago. And still, they return. Creativity can work like that too. Sometimes we sow with intention. Other times, we’re simply the ones lucky enough to witness the bloom. But we must be sure to harvest at least some of our crops each season.

I tell my students now: work to completion, not to perfection. That’s how we move forward. That’s how we grow.

Deadlines help, too. In fact, I need them. I’ve been writing for Liz Abbott, the editor and publisher of this very paper, for nearly a decade. She knows me well enough to give me multiple deadlines—one for the outline, and one for the final draft. That’s not a weakness. That’s just how I work best. Without a deadline, it simply won’t happen. For many of us, deadlines aren’t pressure. They’re permission.

Some things can be finished alone. But the big work, the meaningful stuff, usually involves other people. Musicians, collaborators, friends who give feedback, listeners who silence themselves to hear you. If you ask people to show up for the process, you owe them the finish.

I tell my clients: finish it anyway. Maybe the moment passed. Maybe the headlines changed. Maybe your heart’s already moved on. Still—finish it. Learn the thing. Ship it. Next.

Creatives love to start. But finishing? That’s where the real magic happens.

Genius doesn’t usually arrive in one brilliant flash. It shows up after you’ve built momentum. After you’ve made enough work to recognize what matters. We don’t get to brilliance without turning on the faucet and letting the water run. The early flow might be messy, even muddy. But the longer it runs, the clearer it gets. That’s what makes space for the good work to come through.

Homework: Pick one project you’ve been avoiding. Set a deadline—this week, this month, this season. Share it with a friend who believes in completion over perfection.