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52 Steven Pressfield

We’re halfway, two-thirds through. Far enough to have invested
serious time and money, not to mention our hopes, our dreams,
our identity even—but not far enough to have passed the crisis
point, not far enough to glimpse the end.

We have turned round Cape Horn and the gales are shrieking;
ice encases the masts; sails and sheets are frozen. The storm howls
dead in our faces. There’s no way back and no way forward.

We know we’re panicking but we can’t stop; we can’t get a hold
of ourselves. We have entered ...