IT'S NOT OVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

These past weeks have been bad.

On many afternoons, I've woken up feeling like I need to throw up. But I never actually do. I just feel really nauseated all day long. I haven't been able to eat anything, except when I really force myself. Which means that I've practically traumatized myself in relation to many foods I used to like.

I've been googling stuff like my life is over and then reading countless reddit posts written by people who feel like their lives are over. (In one of the threads, the person whose life was over was getting advice from a person named patronizingperv... Wow. That could be my name.)

On a "rational" level, I don't really think my life is over. But some "irrational" areas of my mind have been playing with that possibility lately... It's a bit hard to explain.

Okay... There's this book I've been writing for more than six years now.

I've given it my all. It's been my present and my future.

Obviously, I never thought writing it would take six years. When I was about 16 and started taking writing seriously, I already felt like I had "what it takes" to be a Fucking Great Writer. I really felt like I had what it takes. Then a couple of years later all these interesting people found me online, and the weird thing is that everybody seemed to believe me.

The world was dark and I was a disaster, but at least I was capable of magic. It all just flowed so effortlessly. In 2014, when I started writing this book, I really felt like I was "on the edge of glory" somehow.

But it turns out that writing a novel is not an effortless thing to do. At least if one actually wants to write something that's genuinely meaningful. Now it's six years later, and the book is still work in progress. Writing it has become this endless mountain that just gets taller and taller every time I think I'm getting closer to the top. Climbing has been great, but eventually, some kind of existential horror and exhaustion does start to define the experience... Trying to finish this book has taken so much of my energy that all other elements of my life have dwindled. I don't even know where most of the people I knew six years ago are nowadays.

And here's where things get sort of vomit-inducing:

Not too long ago, at midnight, a good friend called me.

I finally gave the book to him in January. He's been reading it now.

Well. I got the impression that he kind of hates the book. At least the first 40% that he'd read so far.

I listened calmly. My friend is in a dark place, too, and hates most things, so I was able to take his criticisms with a grain of salt. Besides, I know that the first 40% of the book are the most problematic areas. There are also two other friends who've been reading the book, and I'm still waiting for their opinions.

However.... after the phone call, it was as if some kind of void gradually opened up under me. I started questioning things. Not just the book, but also my life. My "identity" as a writer. Everything. And some stuff I hadn't let myself become fully aware of suddenly became obvious.

Most importantly: I kind of hate the book too.

It's probably not necessary to describe it in much detail here, but basically, it's a bit like Twilight. Except that Bella is a young heterosexual male who's convinced he's "too ugly" to live among people, and Edward has a lot in common with Clint Eastwood in Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy... Steamy, right? Despite all this, it's actually not completely brainless. It deals with social angst and isolation. And privilege. It also involves a haunted building and a lot of weird sadomasochistic(?) undertones, and towards the end, the protagonist even gets to experience what it's like to feel beloved on the earth. Finally, the whole thing is wrapped up with a long essay on the necessity of self-transcendence.

It's almost 700 pages long. (I mean the book. Not the essay. Thank God.)

I do like a lot of stuff in the book. For example, I love some of the characters. I love them, love them, as actual friends, people that I've really known. What I mean is that those people are totally real to me – they're among the most important people I've known in my life. They help me understand other people in the real world. If I'm actually going to say goodbye to those people (John, Sara, Petri...), it really feels like someone's dying and breaks my fucking heart. It's a bit like those scenes in A Beautiful Mind where Russell Crowe decides to start ignoring his imaginary friends.

This is honestly the worst gif I've seen in my life... What's the idea?

I do think that about 25-39% of the book is great. Material that really has the potential of being special, meaningful, glorious.... However, there's also a lot (I mean a LOT) of "dead" material around the good moments. Material that I've rewritten and rewritten and rewritten, and I just haven't been able to make it work. So many important parts, elements, and even characters that I'm just not very excited about.

That's normal, of course. As far as I know, if you manage to get a book published – at least if your editor is sane and OK –, it always means getting rid of a lot of crap and developing those parts of the book that are not crap. It would probably be totally possible to do that to this book and make it work.

But suddenly I realize that I don't know if I want to.

I realize that the stuff that really bothers me about the book is something deeper.

When I started writing the book, I was a stupid kid. That means that I've had to spend several years de-idiotizing the book, fighting the moral confusion that defines the whole thing. Some of the "messages" the book seems to be communicating are not things I necessarily want to communicate. And yet the only way to totally eliminate those shitty messages would be to shatter the whole book.

In a way, it's a book that the 17-year-old me would have wanted to write. And that's great, except that I'm not 17 anymore.

The truth is that for many years now, I've felt like I should be writing something else. A completely different book... There's this other book my heart has been beating for. It lives inside me. It's something else... Actually, it's the reason why Jesus gave birth to me in the first place. It's a book that will allow me to start communicating things I actually care about communicating.

Writing this "Twilight for incels" has been an incredibly meaningful journey for me, but now I realize that it's possible that reading it wouldn't be a meaningful journey for anyone else... So what's the point of holding on to it?

If I really walk away from this book, it probably means that this shadow life I've spent the entirety of my youth living is going to continue. For God knows how long. But whatever. Whatever. I have to write that other book. And it's going to take as long as it's going to take.

This is a photo I took of myself about 40 minutes after I'd realized I'm probably going to abandon my book:

That's approximately the third selfie I've taken in 2021. It's weird, in real life I never actually look like that. Anyway, if the smile looks a bit fake, the reason is that it is. Although inside I really did feel that way.

The thought of abandoning my book gives me a melancholy feeling. And also some dread. But that's not all. There's also this amazing sense of getting something back. Something weightless... and juicy..........

I think it's square one. The limitlessness of that.

I continue to believe that I have a lot to give. To literature. And maybe even to the world. As a kid, I wanted to grow up to be either a great writer OR a teacher at Hogwarts. I think it's still possible I'll get to be those things in this lifetime. (Mark my words. You'll see!)

But not yet... Still not yet.