About perfectionism: I may be discovering that with fiction, you really start to cook when you love what you’re writing more than you love yourself. Or at least you love it more than your ego. The story you’re telling becomes about something other than you. Its urge to be is greater than your desire to be admired. And I’m guessing that when you and it get to that point, the right thing to do is just comb its hair the best you can, while it’s barreling into the front yard.
(First posted January 14, 2014)