I have written. Almost fifty pages. My hazing is my first chapter, together with a chapter with my Helena. Writing, in the middle of the night, at my beloved wooden table. The table where we eat and the children tinker, where scratches and paint residues from former creativity live. I annoy me with people when their dining table is seen as a kind of scratch-free museum piece. A table must be full of scratches, the table must live and tell a story, the work table of creativity and memories. At this table I travel in the night alone towards my own past, as a miner who descends in the depths of dark.
The submitted work is seen as progress. It is sharp, raw and direct. Everyone feels that a good step towards quality has been made. The other feedback is that I still do not write whole sentences, assuming too easily that the reader naturally follows my thinking process. Conventions of comparison provides the reader a clear picture of what happens and under which circumstances, but it can also confuse them. The style is experienced as pleasant and gets an identity. There will be more balance. Nobody seems to think this piece of work is really the truth. They adress the work as fiction.
My partner during this journey, Ben, takes more distance. Distance that frustrates me. First I get a cistern of writing rules that I have to meet, then the quality arises and he is unavailable. According to him, a few better pages say nothing at all. A book has a story that is consistent in terms of style, each part has to be good, from each perspective. Now that I have written a fraction of the book a bit better, I have not wrote a good book, or a book at all. When I am halfway with this quality, I can report again. It is arrogance at its peak. I break up the cooperation and summon my girlfriend to discard any contact with him.
A few days later make my excuse, he is right again. Fuck.
In the planner on my Googledrive the storyline is written globally, divided into particles. There are almost thirty relevant parts. I have submitted five chapters, two of them go straight into the trash bin. I’m going to write that again first. The Eagle and the frog is the red thread of the book. Everyone has to understand that, that is a relevant line of the story.
I have the feeling of inhibition again. It feels like a confession. It is like skydiving and not daring the last few seconds before exit.
My girlfriend, whom I now call happily, and also finally, my wife, sometimes gets me tearing at night while staring at my paper. Sometimes I get motivated and sometimes I have to cry very loud when it all comes back. I write the keywords in my notebook. Defender, Zagreb, smurf and Otto.
I google on streetview if the building still exists and what kind of shop there is now. The streets, the airport, the map and the famous motorways. Now I am looking at that reality from the real reality now. I can close my eyes and be there again. I see and feel the house, the conservatory and Ivanka.
Ivanka, she is my next chapter. Now it is Ivanka’s turn. Tough Ivanka.