I don’t know why I didn’t feel so bad today. Maybe I’ve resigned myself to my fate. Maybe e-mailing everybody and their mom let me vent a little. I mean, sure, I balked a little when I saw [redacted]’s e-mail sitting in my inbox. [I was] afraid. But [reading it] I didn’t feel much, just a [light touch] of regret. I’ve no intention of returning to L.A. any time soon. As I’ve said, I’ve begun to equate it with happiness and [also] with being trapped.

I think what was aggravating me the most about being in L.A. wasn’t the fact that I had nothing to do—I have even less to do here in North Chicago [after all]. It’s that there were people around me, people I was forced to deal with, couldn’t get around. People who kept reminding me that I had an obligation, [even though] I wasn’t so sure I wanted to fulfill [it].

People have had more faith in my writing than in my ability to heal, and even the former is not much to go by. Is it really just fear of failure?

No, it’s more complex than that. It’s the fear of the consequences of failure—I guees it’s a little [like] death. That’s what failure is—when you’ve given it [your] all and it still doesn’t work out, and the game is over, there’s no turning back. I personally have no problem with this. It’s other people and their reaction I’m afraid of. Is responsibility really just [about] cleaning up [everyone else’s] shit? Atlas carrying the world on his shoulder?