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I don't have to be perfect. All I have to do is show up and enjoy the messy, imperfect, and beautiful journey of my life.
A writer's life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don't have to weep about that. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection — unless you lie — in which case of course you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.
The past is a cupboard full of light and all you have to do is find the key that opens the door.