I’m a recovering perfectionist. It’s a battle I’ve waged for years. I’d often catch myself spending a few futile hours moving paragraphs around on the same page for the sixteenth time. I’d become obsessed with every crevice and corner, every comma and semicolon, just to get the article or the book chapter perfect—as Sisyphus rolled his eyes at me. Of course, I knew about the usual vices of perfectionism—that it’s a futile quest to hit a moving target, that it can be crippling,...
