In writing, perfection is fleeting. It might exist in the morning, but by midnight, it will need a cleaning; next week, a complete paint job, and by next month, major renovations. After a year, perfection collapses completely, sagging in the middle and listing to one side, as if it’s been condemned and is resignedly awaiting the wrecking ball to put it out of its misery. I waste a lot of paper. Nevertheless, I write. The house gets dirty, the refrigerator is bare, and friends are calling to ask if I’m still breathing – writing – breathing – to me, it’s the same thing........