The unfinished look of an identity on hold, infinite whiteness fading to grey, so many ways to call it anything but "nothing". Today, being a bit short of inspiration, I decided to turn "nothing" into "something". It all started last night, when I began working again on a short autobiographical story in progress and stopped at the ledge, just before I took a step to the void, while touching an old wound. I wanted to describe an experience of molestation that I had at the age of 11, without being too female. I hate writing that is too female, it's like using your sex to get the attention, almost like wearing too much cleavage. The only difference is this cleavage appeals mainly to the ladies, and I want my writing to be as sexless as possible. I think that sometimes a pseudo-sensitive, pseudo-aggressive, openly post-feminist approach works as a substitute for true talent because while working on this approach, you deliberately treat the female psyche as a musical instrument - touching a certain chord has the certain result of a certain note. That is so unfair to the reader and so disrespectful of her attention... Relevance is the main issue while writing and, as I see it, relevance has to be above sexes. That's why I always test my writing on my man first; first, he is a man and second, he's ruthless. So tonight I will go back to the ledge, I will touch my old wound again, neither as an 11-year-old girl nor as a 39-year-old woman, but as a writer trying to document his / her version on the impossibility of triviality.