Creative Writer seeks salvation from Corporate promise.

Dear Friends and Family,

Today I have a confession and a humble request.

Yesterday, I attended an interview.

Exiting the lift on the 50th button up, I walked into a foyer larger than any house I’ve ever lived in.

White marble pillars and floors, glass doors, suit and ties, easy lies and smiles, clipped short-smart-crew-cut-hairstyles.                  The view from the window was breath taking, in the distance from where I stood,  to the thud, of the little peoples footsteps far below, there was no space for connection. The interview room had seats for 33, yet the two of our voices echoed in it, around it, intimately, just.

As I stood there in a suit, arms and neck braced, breathing constricted, legs and hips straight faced, no emotion detected, non-elected.

I felt the pinch and squeeze of feet not known to shoes 6 months past, I don’t want to loose the memory of sand and grass, still strong enough that the wrongness of restricted arms and motion makes me want to cry and gag and laugh, just a little bit.

Realisation hits.

I got the job. It pays very well and a Visa for Australia thrown in too.

But here’s the thing.

I want to be a Writer, not a corporate waiter. Delivering cash on a silver tray for someone that doesn’t need anymore of it anyway, not at all.

I confess that I am scared and I am frightened. At 33 I should have it all sorted. A healthy bank balance, a place of my own, a flashy car, the latest mobile phone,

a favorite bar where I can wine and dine, show the girls a merry white line and a good time too. A cape to highlight my characteristics unknown, perhaps a volunteer at the shelter for animals and visitor of homes for the alone,                                            not a crime on my record or a record without a scratch. Not a patch of bold beneath my too-long for corporate and scruffy thatch.

I don’t want to compromise.                                                                                                                                                                                         I don’t want to sell my soul – it doesn’t want to live like a mole under the weight of concrete walls and targets,

nor traffic jams and the gaze of clock watching crime keepers who hold the pay packet in prone and rusted fingers.

So, here is my request to you, dear and dearest friends of mine.

Before I give up the fight, one last time,

I want to write my book and go “Once more into the breach.”

Hence, I need a place to stay – To find my way to write the story that I need to tell.

I wonder if you can help, or know someone that will?

I am currently in Australia and I am thinking about New Zealand, though any place might do within relative reach.

It needn’t need to be luxury. Yet somewhere with power, that is comfortable. Where myself can be alone with me in the middle of nowhere. A bonus it would have a shower, be near a tree. Where I can hear silence, and silence hear me.

Where I can barricade myself in with baked beans and write out my dreams that haunt me in the daylight hours.

Where with no-one to stop me, I can go insane quietly to the sound of a keyboard tap-tap-tapping.

If you know of someone who has a cabin in the woods, out in the mountains or in the fields, a property with or without animals that need looking after and would be happy not to yield it’s wildness and have a Writer in residence, then please let me know, ASAP.

Funds are running low, so gratitude from me and the desire to help an aspiring Writer achieve his life long ambition needs to be the main driver.

You never know, you might just save me from corporate success.

If you think you can help, please get in touch as soon as you can, 

With gratitude and love.

Peter Lee

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