Why I have not written any of my books =

Marcel Benabou is quick to acknowledge that his own difficulty in writing has had plenty of company. But the frustrations and pleasures can still be felt privately. Words stick and syntax is stubborn, meaning slips and synonyms cluster. A blank page taunts and a full one accuses. Benabou knows the heroic joy of depriving critics of victims, the kindness of sparing publishers decisions, and the public charity of leaving more room in bookstore displays.

At once the budding of an author and the withering of the authoritative, Why I Have Not Written Any of My Books polishes the varnish of self-conscious writing until it peels away. It provides both a respectful litany of writers' fears and a dismissal of the alibis offered to excuse them.