All writers hide some of their writings. The reasons vary widely. Years ago, it was the Yugoslav secret police I worried about; as of late, it is women. But the stuff I hide is always there. Now it is in my computer, the cupboard of proverbial cupboards. Judging by the latest word count, I currently keep from view some seventeen percent of my Residua, the rest of which is on the World Wide Web. A good measure of social mores, this. The percentage must vary widely, too. Prey, dear reader, what is yours?

Addendum (February 11, 2003)

“I don’t hide stuff,” responded Billy Childish. “That’s why Tracey hates me.” “I wonder,” I wrote back. “In my experience, the stuff you do not hide is bad, but the stuff you hide is even worse.” The next time I bump into Tracey Emin, I will ask her. I bet she will be surprised Billy thinks she hates him.