After countless hours of preparation, my mind fell into a trap. Writing has become a fundamental part of my life, awakening an insatiable monster that feeds on my creativity. I have tried in vain to spend whole days without creating, but I have only succeeded in being beset by unexpected torments. Even sleeping has become impossible, because closing my eyes strengthens that inner creature that lives in me.

That’s why I decided to undertake the long journey that involves creating a novel since it was the only way I found to silence the monster. However, I have a hard time staying focused on a single plot, and the hungry being doesn’t give me the necessary rest between chapters. Therefore, I found myself in need of an alternative.

Amid a vast literary ocean, I found the solution: the short story was the food that the creature inside me longed for. I decided to immerse myself in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, whose stories awakened an unknown part of me. I begin to believe that I have invoked the same being that resided in Poe, that force that compels you to create, the creature that feeds on your works.

After so long, I’m still here, afflicted by my illness: a slave to literary creation, forced to work until exhaustion. It comforts me to know that you are reading, to know that my labor not only feeds the monster but that you can also take advantage of my efforts.

I hope these words are enough for you to understand my dilemma. I wish I had known all this before waking the monster up, stopping it before it took over my time. But now it’s too late for me, I have no choice but to keep creating. I’ll have to lose touch with the world, get away from all those who used to be important. I will live the existence of a slave, serving my sentence with words.