I started TypingforStrangers after quitting my job as a lecturer. I was tired of chasing grants and fixed-term contracts. Tired of marking essays that I knew, but could not prove, were written by AI.

I wrote my PhD on Nietzsche and honesty. His books are full of bold entreaties to live dangerously, to build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius, to send your ships out into uncharted seas.

I was philosophising about how to live. Deep down, I wanted to live according to my own philosophy. I wanted to be honest with others, to take risks, and to say what I think, today, though it contradicts everything I say tomorrow. I wanted to be hyperbolic, unfiltered, and confessional; to write poems that would make others laugh, and cry, and feel things we are all deprived of feeling; to be a great outpouring of sentiment, and to see my words have some effect in this brief life.

I bought a typewriter and started typing. I live in Leamington Spa; therefore, I chose a park bench in Jephson Gardens. I had no idea what would happen, but I hoped it would lead to something good.

Six months later, and I have over 1,400 followers and messages of support most days from someone who wants me to write for them.

I feel restored. I have purpose again. It has been overwhelming, wonderfully overwhelming — the charm of the Dionysian:

‘…not only does the bond between man and man lock itself in place once more, but also nature itself, no matter how alienated, hostile, or subjugated, rejoices again in her festival of reconciliation with her prodigal son, man.’