I had no conception of Resistance in those days. I did not know that there existed inside my head an invisible, insidious, intractable, indefatigable force whose sole object was to keep me from doing my work, i.e., finishing the book I had been trying to write for seven years—and ultimately to destroy me, physically, psychologically, and spiritually. All I knew was that I couldn’t finish anything. My pattern was to quit. To fold. To flake. I’d get the ball all the way to the one-yard line. Then I’d bail. That was my pattern. That was what I always did.
