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writing a book

Release my monster

12 July 2016

I notice that I already exhibit procrastination. I am afraid to start writing because my attention is focused on peripheral issues. What should the cover look like, what should the text be on the back and which media would find this all very interesting? I am scared

I wrote my first long piece last week. In my opinion, I have delivered my greatest achievement ever. If these pages are representative for this part of the storyline, then I am totaling 600 pages. I am completely nowhere. The first feedback has also arrived today. I have shared the written piece with a select number of people. Asking them to read for an honest opinion. I ask questions like how they feel personally.

Not able to follow this gibberish, you lose the reader within a few sentences and too much unnecessary text. Good story but poorly described. Do not mix the present and the past tense all the time. Make whole sentences. No one is going to read a shorthand book“.

Another thinks it only raises questions which are not answered, there is no beginning and no end. I have to write it again. Start over. 20 pages to discard or rewrite? Unfortunately, that is not going to happen, because when I have to write per chapter and have to rewrite and rewrite each chapter, I will not succeed. I continu with the constructive criticism stored in my mind. That’s how I create volume, improvement will come later. I simply have to write better with advancing insight. The better I write the first run, the less hassle with rewriting afterwards. I also understand that misspellings and style errors are not the problem. They can be easily restored.

It’s about the style, main and minor issues. I must write about sextrafficking,it must be meaningful, it must contribute, interest the reader who is seated in front of it. I have to submerse unwillingly into my criminal past again, I have to reflect and write everything down so the reader relives on location and sympathizes. But I do not want to experience it all again. Conclusion today: I write a fictional story about a reality where I was actually present. That’s my view of reality. My truth, a truth that I have to share now.

I understand their feedback. There is a brake within me. I do not write openly, because I am afraid of my own past, afraid of who still believes what, and afraid of them who know what the real truth is. I am Hades, I do not exist, but still I am accountable. I am being sacrificed by my owner to realise a spotlessly swept street for the outside world.

For that reason I dare not write. Afraid of my surroundings and their reactions, nor the reaction of my girlfriend or the children. They know, think and hope that I write fiction. I am only afraid of my own past. Can I write sufficiently generally without awaking the true past awakening, remembering and hunt for me?

Enough people nearby have doubts about my thinking anyway. Soon they read the book and believe that fiction as the truth? Does my environment see me as an author, as a agressor, or perhaps even as both? Even if I am just fiction, a messenger and a observer myself, I am still a delegate of the management who has to clean up their act.

It feels like punishment. Like a cat that has to sit outside in the rain because he pissed on the carpet inside. I am rightly punished by my owner for what crime I have done, although he initiated it all. Now I have to sell it as fiction to the world.

Every letter I write, every movement on the blank white paper, feels like a acknowled suicide. I must not write as if I tell the story of someone I know. When I want to take the reader with me on this journey, it will have to be in the present tense.

The blockade stays in my head. I see my monster swimming uneasily behind the thick glass like a laughing shark. He wants to experience it all again, to repeat it completely. Maybe I should let him go, because he is the real cause too. It is all his fault.

The only way that this confession becomes tangible is to release the monster. Only then is it quality, the truth and a fact. It is the monster who is allowed to take the reader around in my mind.

The monster is in me and I am the monster.

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