Once in a while, after a tiring day, as a sort of nightcap I might pluck from the shelf one of my books and page through, and soon it all comes back: the joy and stress involved in the bookâ€™s creation and completion; the tussle with the universe to extract from it a fitting title; the stories behind word choices, stories only I will ever know; the people who freely gave me their most fragile possession: their trust. My thoughts might run: â€œThat thought was inspired and it reads like it,â€ or I hunt for flaws. â€œThat middle initial should be G, not J; how did I not catch it?â€ â€œShouldnâ€™t have tinkered with that." Last-minute rewrites of my work, even half a sentence, feel and look to me like crudely sewn knee patches on jeans. Musician Les Paul said after a recording session, â€œLeave the mistakes in there; let them know weâ€™re human.â€ Thatâ€™s a great concept, especially when paired with Miles Davis saying about his art, â€œDonâ€™t worry about mistakes. There are none."