You have the same type of clothes in your closet, the same work on your desk, the same friends. You live one life; you have one mask. That you have one history is not the warrant for this, for your one history is filled with multitudes. You chose a singularity because they told you to.

It is social, I think, that we each choose one identity. So that we might belong. Birds of a feather flock together. In the queue, thankful for comrades, ahead and behind, in order, buffering, letting him know he is in his place. A cog, on the correct gear, in the correct machine, in the correct factory. Because a cog that fits everywhere fits nowhere.

For the same reason I thought to write my books under pseudonyms, I give each idea its own point of view, its one whole identity. An eclectic personality makes people uncomfortable. Because it makes readers uncomfortable that such disparate styles might exist in one mind. At least because they do not know which of their own masks to feign, or for those who have only one, whether or not to smile.