Just an explanation. I am not the victim of my workoholism. I am merely the prisoner of my poverty. The fact that all my life's efforts as writer and composer have met with no success, no acclaim, no acknowledgement at all, has just obliged me to work the harder, since without more than a minimum income I can't allow myself any proper freedom, which I therefore struggle the more to obtain. I can't do anything more than what I am doing: trying to improve my recordings, eventually turning them into CDs, and at the moment I have two manuscripts waiting for their doom in Stockholm by insensitive bureaucratic readers for publishers and theatres whose only task is to scrap as many manuscripts as possible: in Sweden you don't have the English system of book agents. My other voluntary works for others are like a relief from this squirrel's wheel of poverty. Even when I travel I constantly have to keep myself on the shortest possible leash and allow myself no extravagances but always think of containing the wallet. So I am not really the self-made victim of workoholism, only constantly struggling to get out of my prison of poverty without losing the only freedom I have, the one of my creative work. This is my constant headache.
Diary by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2008-07-03 at 10:00
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