The Voice I Was Looking For

There was a point when I wanted another voice here—specifically a woman’s. Not because I couldn’t fill the space myself, but because there are certain stories I was never going to tell, a specific angle on the same world I was flatly incapable of reaching. So I put out a call: a girl, 18 or older, unfiltered, could write. Something about a stupid ex, a vodka party, the guy who gave her the wrong piercing. Weekly. Brief. Real.

It had worked before. Ana had written here, and Miriam, in earlier versions of this project. I knew the format could hold it. What I wanted was contrast—someone moving through the same spaces I did but landing somewhere different, noticing things I’d never notice, wanting things I’d never want. The productive discomfort of that. The texture it would give the whole thing.

I don’t remember clearly whether anyone applied. I think someone did. I think it didn’t come to anything. It usually doesn’t, with plans like that—you imagine the collaboration vividly, send it out into the world, and then momentum or indifference closes the door before it ever opens. The search for the right collaborator is one of the most romantic and consistently disappointing parts of making anything.