Dead Versions Of Me (1, #1.4) (eBook, ePUB)
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A Memoir by Elliott CollinsonDead Versions of Me is not a redemption story. It's the wreckage after the reckoning.Told through poetic letters, fractured reflections, and a kind of emotional exorcism, this book follows the psychological unravelling of a man who didn't just write characters, he became them. Part memoir, part literary graveyard, Elliott Collinson explores the cost of immersive storytelling when the lines between fiction and identity blur beyond recognition.What begins as self-reflection turns into a reckoning with silence, performance, inherited grief, and the ghosts of former se...
A Memoir by Elliott Collinson
Dead Versions of Me is not a redemption story. It's the wreckage after the reckoning.
Told through poetic letters, fractured reflections, and a kind of emotional exorcism, this book follows the psychological unravelling of a man who didn't just write characters, he became them. Part memoir, part literary graveyard, Elliott Collinson explores the cost of immersive storytelling when the lines between fiction and identity blur beyond recognition.
What begins as self-reflection turns into a reckoning with silence, performance, inherited grief, and the ghosts of former selves. Each chapter is a eulogy for the versions of him that didn't survive the performance, being the charming ones, the poetic ones, the broken ones who still wanted applause. At the heart of the book is Chapter 9: The Allusion Letters - a nine-part descent into ego, emotional distortion, false strength, artistic madness, and the quiet ache of wanting to be seen without being solved.
This isn't about healing. It's about telling the truth so recklessly that the past starts answering back.
It's about grief that lingers without ceremony. Trauma that isn't aesthetic. Strength that doesn't want to be inspiring. And the uncomfortable realization that sometimes, the version we buried wasn't dead - just waiting for permission to speak again.
Written in the aftermath of what the author calls self-inflicted bipolar storytelling, Dead Versions of Me is the result of going too far in pursuit of meaning - and writing your way back through the wreckage.
Some stories are crafted. This one bled out.
For those that:
Lost themselves in the work they thought would save them
Written just to survive the night.
Doubted their sanity in the pursuit of truth.
Carried the voices of others long after the writing stopped.
Tried to escape the past, only to find it staring back through the words on the page.
Dead Versions of Me is not a redemption story. It's the wreckage after the reckoning.
Told through poetic letters, fractured reflections, and a kind of emotional exorcism, this book follows the psychological unravelling of a man who didn't just write characters, he became them. Part memoir, part literary graveyard, Elliott Collinson explores the cost of immersive storytelling when the lines between fiction and identity blur beyond recognition.
What begins as self-reflection turns into a reckoning with silence, performance, inherited grief, and the ghosts of former selves. Each chapter is a eulogy for the versions of him that didn't survive the performance, being the charming ones, the poetic ones, the broken ones who still wanted applause. At the heart of the book is Chapter 9: The Allusion Letters - a nine-part descent into ego, emotional distortion, false strength, artistic madness, and the quiet ache of wanting to be seen without being solved.
This isn't about healing. It's about telling the truth so recklessly that the past starts answering back.
It's about grief that lingers without ceremony. Trauma that isn't aesthetic. Strength that doesn't want to be inspiring. And the uncomfortable realization that sometimes, the version we buried wasn't dead - just waiting for permission to speak again.
Written in the aftermath of what the author calls self-inflicted bipolar storytelling, Dead Versions of Me is the result of going too far in pursuit of meaning - and writing your way back through the wreckage.
Some stories are crafted. This one bled out.
For those that:
Lost themselves in the work they thought would save them
Written just to survive the night.
Doubted their sanity in the pursuit of truth.
Carried the voices of others long after the writing stopped.
Tried to escape the past, only to find it staring back through the words on the page.
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