Pandora, not the music thing, the woman with the box, not that kind of box. Well, that too, but that’s not what I’m talking about (unless, well, some feminist literary critics would disagree, but again, let’s move on) .
Every piece of writing is a box of secrets, dangers, and hopes. Every piece of writing holds some hope we have and cannot let go. We don’t even know what it is until we start to open the box and pull out the harm to find the sweet, gentle thing we were craving. I am opening a deep, dark box, full of pain, and I know that I am opening it because I have a hope at the bottom, and I want to see that hope fly out, and I don’t even know what it looks like, I just know that I keep pulling, and all these boxes once belonged to Pandora.
