Fear. My grandfather faced it on a daily basis, and he did it for a living as a professional boxer back in the 1930s and early ‘40s, when the money, and the gloves, weren’t as padded as they are today. As a writer, I face fear as well. Not the physical kind, of getting punched in the face or drilled in the ribs (unless that NYC commute gets particularly nasty), but the fear of an empty page. Everyone with a presentation to prepare, a report due, a project to complete, a stock trade to make, a deal to close, an idea to put forth — in short, anyone who actually gives a sh*t about his job — knows what I’m talking about. It’s the fear of failure. That unpleasant, dry-mouthed, ball-tightening sensation that always manages to strike the moment we actually invest ourselves in the outcome of something.