I finish, after a long day of work, the plot of my second book. Now I have thirty finished short stories, in volume already revised, and sixteen poems ready for publication. The work of these days is a novel that I will finish in the coming months. Set the plot, I scare: horrible! Horrible and frustrating… I feel, beforehand, disgust for what I will put myself to write and my sincere desire is to set fire to everything I write, immediately give up the endeavor that will take me a huge time, an outburstal psychological effort and bitter nights thinking about what I wrote. But I realize that if I do, I will have no more reason to wake up. I see this terrible sarcasm laughing at me and, who knows where, I get a strange sense of duty that, incredibly, imbues me with an unshakable motivation. Disgusted, I find myself dependent and hostage to this duty.
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