Why not? The single ones, early chapters cannot be incorporated into a late chapter, because they are too big, So roughly every chapter has the same number of pages for me. The chronology of the chapters represents a fixed course over time, transferred seen an inner development of the protagonist between 25 and 45 Years.
When I don't want that former protagonist in my book anymore, then I must undoubtedly tell another story. I briefly had the redeeming idea, two novels from “Belief” close, namely to put the second novel there, where the physical illness replaces the mental abnormality/diagnosis or the focus is no longer on the personality of the protagonist, but on the tipped living conditions/the injustice in life caused by the Daliege disease, myalgic encephalomyelitis, which was not considered worthy of research. Through this disease, an element from the outside world is added, one,that is socially important in contrast to the world of experience of a quirky borderliner.
The problem, So that's what I've been dealing with for about three years, is the inner coherence of the figure itself.
This cannot be created between: A: Adjustment disorder/borderline/naughty/self-actualization/living just for art and B: the outer framework of the primary?secondary disease ME, which is a political issue and the protagonist “upgrade” should.
I do not think so, that someone would read my book, that consists of A (and certainly not distinguished), because mental ne'er-do-wells can't arrive in the culture at all. I know but, that I could tell a story of injustice with B, but then it's a different story. Unfortunately, the food is not enough for 2 stories, I don't have any at the moment, since nothing has happened in my life since June. And nothing can happen without an urgently needed invasion of the outside world into my own world. So far I can't find out, how should I do that, and the urge, to run from this life, dictated by a bedridden body, crosses my intentions at regular intervals.
A part of the book and thus the original dogma literally calls for an end, a separation and detachment from me. But at the same time, the second part is just a continuation of the same, and so I feel compelled, to carry the creed on with me as a life's work, although I wish for nothing more, than to write something completely new, was, as I implied, above, doesn't work at all.
If only I had this one book “Belief” will have done, then the meticulous thinking about it is of course the logical anticipation, of nothing, that has been blooming for me for a long time ….. the death of inspiration ….. the disappearance of my last elixir.
Change the belief again and find a new, better form, can suggest the feeling, that I'm needed again. But I have to assume so from experience, that the result, if i try, overall won't be better than the old one. Certain things, v.a. linguistic, where I spent months, tinkered for years (v.a. three first chapters) will be lost in favor of a more drinkable text, who knows only one temporality: the now and today. this means, that I can only reassemble this novel from backwards, because the old chapters … and, most chapters are not even in the here and now and worse: the voice, telling this story, at first, is no longer mine, as she is now. And that is the point, that I can't stand.——
Conclusion: I wrote too slowly or experienced too little, to be able to write faster, one of the two candidates has overtaken the other: either the time me and my expression or vice versa: i the time.
—
However, I don't see any possibility at the moment, mein Absurd Curriculum, whatever my belief is called, from this point, of the present hour, to put on.
I give myself a week, to keep thinking about it. Then I will give up, and the old version, the “Belief” as a developmental novel with self-contained, chronologically consecutive chapters, Prof. R. Send care to read.
But if the old version for me as “Give up” feels, then there must be a dream of a more compelling novel structure!!!
Or else it is an illusion, because I don't want to admit it, that I've reached my limit, have to let go of things. I wish, my work would be ripped from my body.
But that's exactly what I wanted, back then, as young woman, after the desolate school days: I wanted to do a job, where no one interferes with me, which is determined so much by myself, that an assessment becomes difficult. If this is now this task, that I gave myself, then I now feel the disadvantage: no longer to know. And yet only I can solve the mess. I have to find a degree myself, one: It's enough! I must have a stop switch in my brain, who does not again investigate the possibility that suddenly arises, thereby discarding the inventory. But yes, that's it: I don't want stock! I want something, that is fresher than stock! And for that I would have to write a flash novel, which is identical to my respective level of development!
And now: at the moment: I can no longer write a sentence of my belief.
Now there is blackout.
(PS: Henry, of, my only reader, Are you still on Stromboli?? Come back soon and lend me a fertile ear and a wind-swept heart.)