The last place I wrote was beginning to feel like a mineshaft caving in on itself. There was dust- the farthest you could see was five feet away, and rocks were tumbling in and the light receded. People were peeking in, even if I asked them for privacy. Actually, asking was never my specialty. I didn’t ask, because I knew there was nothing for them to learn. I felt shame at the thought of them parceling through the dumpster in search of some random piece of paper with meaning only I could encode. Why would they read splashes of emotion when they hated the genre? Who searches the most desolate places when wanting to select from hundreds of thousands of girls?
I start this new place in search of privacy. Privacy within anonymity. I don’t know what topics I will pursue, or what emotions will plague me, and what obsessions will stalk me- or me stalk them- but I need a fresh environment, a fresh page, a fresh chance. People don’t just need second chances. They need endless chances. But too many and they become sloppy, taking what isn’t theirs, looting deserted neighborhoods for files and paperwork to find dirt.
I have to create a new safety zone in order to feel comfortable writing again. That’s going to be hard.