I told someone yesterday that I’m moving to Berlin to disappear, to be someone else … or rather to be no one, because if I really think hard about it, it’s the possibilities of a blank slate that excite me.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Because the truth is that something changed over the past six months. I stopped freelance writing back in September, so that I could fully concentrate on my book. And I’ve been feeling creatively blocked for ages, so long that I can’t even tell you when it first began (2008?), but last fall, I made a decision to get my shit together (finish proposal, choose agent, get contract) before my move to Berlin. By the end of November, I realized that I would have to make this story fictional. Which meant, well, total and sheer panic on my part, because I’d spent the prior three years thinking that this would be a memoir and now I would have to rewrite like a bajillion pages and holy fuck, could I even do fiction?. A month after this horrifying turn of events, I left for Asia, where I spent three weeks scribbling thoughts in longhand and sorting myself out far away from home. Hong Kong was my favorite city, because I spent the most time there alone.

When I came back, I felt better about the whole book situation. I also cut down on speaking gigs and travel for reasons of time and money and - to be honest - lack of motivation. Everything else beyond this book suddenly became extraneous and stopped mattering, stopped being something that I could even enjoy, if that makes sense. So my life became 90% book-focused with a remaining 10% for sex, yoga, brunch, my dog, and arranging flowers, a bizarrely calming activity. (Really, try it sometime.) I make a weekly trip to Harvard Square to catch up with friends, but on a day-to-day basis, I don’t get dressed unless absolutely necessary, haven’t cooked since 2011, and “entertain” guests by hosting Trader Joe’s-catered work/study parties in my living room. This book is my life, and the scary thing is that I like it this way. I don’t mind that I’ve eliminated all traces of the static, the distraction, the noise that I once welcomed.

Did you know that my Myers-Briggs type is ENFP? Sometimes, I really wonder about that.

It’s funny how I spent the last couple of years so fully immersed in progressive activism, and now I have little interest in organizing campaigns or fundraising or even showing up to events. I believe in the causes (well, some of them, at least) but I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with the internal politics and drama, and frankly, it’s all a fucking waste of my time, because I could be spending this time writing. I will let other people - optimistic, self-motivated, tireless allies - pick up where I dropped off. I just can’t do it all like I used to, and it’s slightly scary that I don’t feel the least bit guilty for saying “no”.

And oh, look, SXSW just started. Time to ditch the introversion.

I haven’t been this singularly focused on a project since I was writing SexAndTheIvy.com - not such a surprise given that this book is, after all, based on the site. It was that blog that taught me how to talk to myself, how to work out what was in my head by putting it down into word, how to listen to my instincts, how to live authentically. But with all the ensuing controversy and harassment, it didn’t seem worth the trouble to keep it up when I couldn’t write a single personal thing in it anymore. I should’ve anticipated this then (and maybe I did and ignored it) but in retrospect, that was when the writer’s block started.

There are so many things that have appalled and disgusted me about the endless harassment directed toward me and my friends/family/readers, etc. Too many libelous statements to count, too many innocent people who have been harmed, too many frantic emails and phone calls and lost hours. And you know what? I don’t even care anymore about fighting it, because there is no amount of compensation, no fitting revenge, absolutely nothing that could possibly make up for the fact that I lost touch with a part of myself for years.

Same blog, different girl.

Which is why, I was thinking: wouldn’t it be nice if I could just disappear? I could be someone else, but most importantly, I could be no one. An anonymous nobody with silence and peace and all the time in the world to write.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.