I finished up an indie-rock-cred novel ("You Don't Love Me Yet") on the train last night and this morning picked up a thin book that Michael Kraiger had loaned me, a book about art and fear.
And was reading it on the way to work, skimming large chunks thinking "Yeah, yeah, whatever," when I hit this sentence.
Ansel Adams was right: to require perfection is to invite paralysis.
Damn. That's good. And exactly my problem.