What moment, round and shining like the moon, will be auspicious enough to begin, to cut, to cast on, to finally write the first words?

Perfectionism is a beast circling round you, writhing inside you, tempting you to not begin. A thousand imaginary eye-rolling teenage girls, forming a vicious crowd controlled by group-think, ready to pull your hair and stomp on your hands and cut out your heart with sharp tongues running over cherry flavoured lip gloss.