The Evil Perfectionist

He waits at the end of every sentence I write.
"Do you really need that comma?"
"That parenthetical phrase is unnecessary."
"Are you sure you spelled that name right?"
"Passive-voice alert!"
"Who do you think you are? John Steinbeck?! Dream on!"
"Cut! Start over. Not good enough."

Sometimes I'm able to ignore his nasally voice
Or placate him.
"It's only the rough draft," I say,
And he fades away
And my muse joins me
Smiling, fluttering
Whispering clever suggestions in my ear.

The words flow
Babbling, bold, bright
Effortless
Magic

Until my demon strangles my muse
Bloodies her mouth, scratches her cheeks
And kicks her until she leaves.

"Now, where were we?" my demon sneers.
The excruciating dissection of every word on the page
Begins again.

"Can't you leave me alone?" I ask.
He laughs and bites my hand.
"You can do better," my demon says
Hacking my phrases into
Meaningless pieces of letters
Wounded punctuation marks
Magnifying imagined mistakes.

"I don't have to be perfect!
I can't be perfect every single time!
Let my pretty muse come back.
Please!" I cry

But my demon grins
Bares his fangs
Dripping with thick, cold righteousness.
I can't ignore him or disobey him.
My muse is afraid to come back.

"Get out your thesaurus and find another word for 'righteousness'
If you know what's good for you," my demon orders me
And
Sighing, cursing, hating him for all the times
He's been right
All the times
He's made my writing stronger, tighter, snappier
I do what he says.
"Righteousness" becomes "respectability."
The demon (that jackass) admits my original word choice was better
And disappears.

My muse alights on my shoulder
Hands me a pencil without an eraser.
"Go. Run. Fly!" she says
So I do.
I write and write and write
Until my demon
(That anally-retentive jerk)
Returns with his pink eraser.