Writing has become more difficult because I ended up in a period in which so much happens in different realities and layering, that even the reality of writing itself confuses itself. I am the story, and the other way around.
I have to go back. The misguided arrogance, because of the quality as a new writer, makes me a little bit more mastered. Because of this I allow myself to discuss a less good quality. I notice that I have to write more and more when it comes to mind. It is a certain flow. More and more I suddenly jump off the couch and quickly write a number of words in my notebook. A story tree and the pawns.
Otranto, 250 hp, minimalism, Zlatan.
More and more memories are coming back. I see the wallpaper again, I can smell the breakfast of Donja, the paintings and the noise in the night clubs in Tirana.
The book slowly fills with the right and best material. More realistic than the truth is not possible.
I also experience the problem that writers experience. Total black out or the lack of motivation. The environment comes with tips. Every day a few pages. As if I like to relive every day. It is as if I have nice sex and all of a sudden the alarm goes on. We will continue tomorrow, that does not work. Writing a part will cost me a minimum of ten hours, then I only have the rough design of a part of the story that needs to be rewritten a few times.
Will this book ever be realized?