Let me illustrate this with a personal example
D that I still think is pretty good
The particular experience I have in mind is that of struggling some years ago with the realisation that one lengthy part of my Ph.D should be deleted. My idea had been to combine a theological study of the work of the American theologian Hans Frei with a study of a particular congregation in Cambridge, in order to show that the concepts and arguments with which this academic theologian was working connected in interesting ways to patterns of practice and habits of thought amongst ‘ordinary’ Christians. Now my commitment to this strange combination was very strong. I put a great deal of effort into it. All sorts of people in the theology faculty, and in the congregation I was studying, knew about and supported my endeavour. I had publicly defended the idea of doing this study in various talks and papers. And I had, with some arrogance (I now realise) cheerfully asserted that what I was doing was new and relevant, and would breathe fresh vitality into theological discussions that were in danger of becoming dry and useless. Over several years, this project had become part of my self-perception, and part of my self-presentation: I was a theologian, but not just any kind of theologian–I was a theologian who also did ethnography; a theologian who paid serious and (I hoped) sophisticated attention to the muddles of ordinary Christian practice. And, by the end of the Ph.D, that’s simply who I was.
D succeed relaxed, I finally admitted that the attempt–interesting and imaginative though I still think it was–had been a failure
And yet–behind the scenes I was finding it persistently difficult to tie the conceptual knots that would bind together my study of Hans Frei and my study of this congregation. I built various conceptual and argumentative bridges between the two, but never quite got to the point where I was completely happy that I had succeeded–never quite got to the point where I felt I had established my case. …