When I completed my own memoir finally, using sections of his own writing to fill in some of the missing historical and psychological details, I felt artistic satisfaction finally. It was complete. I had no longer any nagging self-doubts as I had had before.
Then recently I re-released my original memoir, which is in a relatively immature voice compared to the more advanced one. At this point I felt that my younger, less jaded and wearied self rejoiced. Suddenly I had an injection of energy and youth that I had been missing for a few years. Clearly my younger self was thanking me.
The most significant change these days is that I lie down on the bed and dream and have no nightmares. For years I had them all the time, as the urgency to get this work done built up. The nightmares were not about writing, but about suffering of a sort that could not be communicated. It was as if my brain had started to implode.