But no book?!

Some people know I like to write. So, inevitably, from time to time, I get the question “And, when is your first book going to be ready?” To which I always have to admit that I never felt the urge nor the need to write a book. “Ah, cold feet?” Uhm, no, not really. I just like to write short pieces; a column in a magazine would be nice. To which I then get the comment that I’ve watched too much Sex & the City.

So what is it with this writing of mine? Is it like the artist who keeps making little sketches in his notebook, but never gets to the point of making an actual painting? Or is it just what it is: something that I like doing, but on my terms. The short notes, and only when I feel like it? I never gave it much thought before, but people have been “bothering” me with the book-issue quite a lot lately.
Last year, when I went to France, everybody just assumed the image of me, with my glass of wine and baguette, finally getting started on “the book”. Now that I’m home, not working, and I have to tell people that yes, quite a bit of my time goes to writing, there it is again: “Ah, the book?”.

Maybe I’m to blame as well. Although I’ve never mentioned “book” to anyone, I never hid the fact that I just love writing. When people asked me in high school what I wanted to do, my answer would be “to write”. When the study advisor asked me when I was 17 “What are you good at?” , I could think of no other answer than “writing”. My writing was what got me the best grades, and what would keep me busy in the evenings after school. Poetry, dairy, pieces for the school paper, etc. But in all honesty: I never even attempted a book. I simply don’t know what I would write an entire book about. (Not due to lack of imagination: I’d just have to use my dreams, and you’d get the most hair-rising horror stories you could possibly think of)

So once more, just to be clear: there will be no book. But do I see myself as a writer? Yes, I do. Go figure…. ;-)