A person who is always almost ready

I have a talent for preparation that has begun to look, from a certain angle, like a refusal. The course, the notebook, the better morning, the version of the project I will start when the desk is clear. The desk has never been the obstacle. I am very convincing on the subject of my own impending seriousness.

Readiness is an attractive identity because it borrows the dignity of the work without paying for it. You get to be the sort of person who cares about craft. You buy the right paper. You speak fluently about what you are going to make, and people who love you nod, because the nodding is cheaper than the question, which is: when has the preparing ever been allowed to end?

The regret is not that I wasted time. Time spent becoming skilled is not a scandal. The regret is that I used the skill of beginning as a place to live. Drafts stayed drafts so I could keep the feeling of potential, which is cleaner than the feeling of a finished thing that can be judged. Potential is the only genre in which I am always good.

What I would do differently is almost too small to confess. I would declare a piece done while I still hate a sentence in it. I would let the record show the attempt. Almost-ready has had the microphone for long enough. It is a charming speaker. It has never once risked anything that can be read back to it.