On the flip side: life in one's comfort zone results in a very different type of book that can be equally confining. The sense of someone unwilling to venture far from mother's folds. Oh coddled, hip, and snarky youth.
The kind of writing I specialize in is forged of habit––there is the hardness of literary bones that have been broken and reset, many times. Yet there is an essential softness, an openness to new thoughts and experiences, that I protect like a swaddling baby. The moment they take away my ability to imagine in an unaffected way, I will die.
Many days only habit takes me through. Words disseminated this way fall into a void. Yet they are there to find resonance when and if they will. To be discovered by some semi-frozen body, mind in ooze mode but intact, accessing data from aeons ago on a prison ship heading for Tetra 5. That is something.