Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
The demon of wanting to know the truth when there is no truth but your own truth; your own mind sees and hears things differently than any other mind on earth. However, having said that could we agree that if one sets about to expose the truth that one would look for facts as set forth in other author’s books? I do not know if this is true or not because all of life, at some point seems to be a fabrication; writing is a journey back into the soul as you relieve all that you have already lived and tried to forget or maybe tried to remember the good and failed because perhaps there was not enough good to remember. If one is often told that if only you could be more like your siblings you would not get into so much trouble. Is that the truth or did you just dream this bad dream and wake into a loving world. Parents can love their children but not really like them and the child knows when that is true. The wisdom of children far outweighs any other wisdom. It is the innocence of childhood before the world beats it out and flattens this wisdom.
Writing wrings the last drop of blood; tears the fabric of your soul and leaves you lying there in your own powerless state to change what might have been except maybe through writing the facts as you find them within the confines of a library or other public domain sources.
Neither is this true. There is no truth. There is no way to know absolutely what you search for. It is an impossible task but one must try to follow that path because there are gems along the way that may substitute for what you have looked for.
Is this a rant or a revelation? You choose.
Don’t you love all the dangling prepositions?