I sometimes wonder over this Idius, of which I have so far dedicated a decade of writing, hours a day. The conception of it came in a moment of insanity, perhaps the strongest conviction a man can have is in such a moment! I began writing down my stray thoughts on pieces of paper, for over a year– only later did I see a movie where the aspiring author carried blank books, and what a difference that made! But for the first few months, I wrote on coupons, dollar bills, napkins, book, whatever. After I had hundreds and hundreds of these ideas – when and how I decided my spare thoughts were so important, I don’t know, probably part of my grandiosity – I bought some folders which would stand for chapters of my book, and sorted through them. This too a week.
Then I sorted through each folder, and came up with a bunch of sections for each chapter. This took a lot of time too. Meanwhile, my summer job was doing a lot of sorting too: I was hired to sort through piles and piles of papers for the downtown hospital. It was boring work, which gave me oppurtunity to think of more thoughts.
Finally after work, I would go directly to the break room and write out my ideas and notes for a few hours each night before going home. After a summer of this, I finished the first draft of my book.
My mother’s reaction when I presented a copy of my book was to ask “how much money has it earned? Talk to me about it when it has earned some money.” Both my parents were suspicious of philosophy, which was unneccesary since all the answers we needed to know were in the Bible. My coworkers at the hospital, whom I scarcely got aquainted to, also asked why I was writing philosophy, and one of them quoted an epistle of Paul where he condemned philosophy.
Throughout the years my parents advised me again and again to write novels, since nobody cared what I had to say, being a child, and that people like stories better anyway. My mother once gathered up all my notes and copies of the book and threw them in the garbage. I did, however, have a backup on my computer.
Over the years I always kept a blankbook on me, and read and read constantly, and talked constantly of my ideas. My friends did not understand why I did this, and did not read what I wrote. I tried to give copies of my book away, I would print them out, but nobody would read it. Later I told my philosophy professer about it, but she said nobody would take it seriously since I lacked credentials or the proper training to do serious philosophy. I had one friend who was training to be a philosopher, who was deeply into Nietzsche, tell me I was wasing my time, and to give it up. He was the only intellectual I knew at the time.
Years later, my wife, who finds the book difficult, once read an essay and started crying, saying that my work would never be published, there was no market for it. Evidently she felt pity that I had put such high value on it.
And so my great resolve to write, and especially this book, which is now 2,700 pages, which I constantly revise, review, edit, and reconsider, has been a resolve with no external recommendations, no living models, no encouragement from friends, teachers, or parents. It is sui generis. And it is the most important thing in my life. It is my passion. And being something completely my own, with no indication it will ever be published or read, I love it dearly. This book is my second self.