If your worst fear is writing the wrong thing, and then you write the wrong thing, there is much less to be afraid of. You realize the world doesn’t end. You feel terrible for a couple of days, and then you call your brother, the artist, and he says, I know what that’s like, when you’ve been working on a painting and you finally realize it’s time to stop, even though you never got it. And you call your agent, and he says, yeah, this is hard work, isn’t it?

When the worst thing has happened, there’s no more bartering, or striving, pleading or hoping. You just roll up your sleeves and start paying attention, being present, try to figure out where you are.

By quitting, I declare myself: I was not happy. That was not my world. That was not my voice. Which brings me one step closer to a world I want to write.