A few years back I was renting a little cosy room in East London.
I change place quite often, for those who don't know me, sometimes after only a few months in, - and this one was very lovely indeed, old but recently refurbished, squeaky floor, claustrophobic, my cup of tea. Insomnia, as gambling and other habits, were ramping and leaving me pretty shattered. Long nights at the casino, home of big dreams and even bigger losers, while I was already working on my first book, - and very little in the 'real' world. I couldn't give too much of a shit about the others as much as myself, so to speak.
But on those night I realized how much addictions were part of my life, of anyone's life, for that matter. We were all born and bond to the same laws.
And so I got to write the first draft of Ripped, a story of body image disorder more true than you know.
Later on, some of those experiences would be featured in Smooth, though strictly under the form of alcoholic memories and self-destructive behaviour.
Today, packing stuff while about to leave again, I can see that the bigger picture is always what you make of your past, while your paste is what you were trying to create for your future.
None of them make sense most of the time.
But I keep on writing, and that's something.