It's always interesting hearing you think out loud on these things because I understand, on one hand, the desire to create the perfect book, the one that says and does exactly as it would in my head, that nails every point I want to make with grace and skill and delicacy, and the frustration that inevitably occurs when it reaches none of these goals... Argh. Yes.

and yet, at the same time, I think "perfection is finite. Perfection is done. I cannot be perfect because I am a messy slab of living meat." And I wonder if what you see as confidence, is the acceptance of that sloppiness?

(as a skier, I've crashed into a tree and survived, tho my nose is now somewhat dented. Sloppy meat. But it makes a great story.)

I don't know, I'm just thinking through my fingers here, too.