The desire to be a writer—or more accurately, my desire to write—began many years ago. Even before I stumbled upon a book in a bookstore when I was in my early twenties. The title was Hoe Schrijf Ik Een Boek: Het Schrijven van Non-Fictie (How to Write a Book: Non-Fiction Writing) by Roy Martina and Willem Jan van Wetering. That book became fuel for an already burning desire to write.
As you may have noticed, the book is in Dutch. And Dutch is not my mother tongue. In fact, if we’re being precise, it’s not even my second language. That’s one of the main reasons I felt such elation and satisfaction when I finished reading it. I still remember that feeling vividly.
Finishing a book—and truly understanding it—brings a profound sense of accomplishment. So I often wonder: how would it feel to write a book and see it published? Will I ever experience that moment?
Whether I do or not, nothing can stop me from writing every day. Writing feels like an unrequited love. I love it deeply, even if it doesn’t always love me back. And I ask for nothing in return. How’s that for a metaphor?
