I put down the pen, turned the page and placed it on top of the ones that had come before it. The pile of paper was now the complete first draft of my autobiography. In my 40-years-long career as a writer I had never written so many lies. Never had I put so much fiction on paper. Yet, the autobiography was faithful and consistent with the perception I had portrayed over the years. True to the smoke and mirrors I had erected around my personal life.
The veracious account of my life was written in my novels. Fifteen best-selling works of make-believe fiction. The books that mainstream critics rejected as immoral and unrealistic, with seriously flawed characters. The same stories my readers acclaimed with perverse satisfaction. The accounts of a life that no one dared to admit they desired but everyone secretly craved.
That was my real life, but even I dared not confess.
