There I was with my friend, on my second cup of tea. He had just asked me why I do this. And the words I heard myself saying were about wanting to be found, a bit like a child in a fairytale, I thought. Then I said: I always imagine, every single time I sit down, that no one is there. I am always amazed when they comment, when they respond and share with their own stories. But at the point of writing, I am on my own. It is just me and the void. And I find this terribly liberating. Because I know that if I spent time thinking about how this looks, or what might others say I would quite easily persuade myself not to write that blog post about a character called The Book, and then another, and another, and on. So I imagine that there is no one out there. Just me at the desk in the pool of light, with perhaps another, near-me out there somewhere, someone who is far away, whom I have never met and probably never will, someone who is the ideal for whom I write. Someone who gets it. My tribe of one.