This new year has not been a creative one so far. I have not been inspired, not by music, not by words, not by people.

I was, however, made aware that I suck as a friend. Two people noticed it, it must be true? Call me stubborn, but they don’t get it. I can’t think happy thoughts and all becomes good and well inside my head. I can’t embrace people who I subjectively feel are not needing me to live a good and happy life. And I just can’t be a better friend at present.

In a way, it all comes down to them not knowing me. And I can’t pour my heart out face to face. It happens in writing. My writing is not hidden, yet neither my family nor my friends read my words. My family claims it is because I write in English, but they know enough of the language to understand me. I mean, my words aren’t difficult words. If they wanted, they would get it. My friends are the same… They were rather condescending when I proudly told them that I published a novel. I remember feeling a mix of accomplishment and shame.

Unexpectedly, this thought crept into my mind today. Well… Not completely. I am more or less seriously taking the decision at this moment to write a new novel. I will take my time with it because I know how easily I am overwhelmed with work and family and the house and finding time for myself, but I miss writing and the only remedy I know is to pick it again. I know that I can do it. Heck, in 2015/2016 I wrote four short novels back to back. I will not claim that they are perfect and they are unedited and filled with mistakes but they are out there to read for free. (tablo.io/micqu)

So yes, I will write again. I will find inspiration and passion again. And I will not let anyone make me feel ashamed for this. Because writing is in my bones. It is a part of who I am.

xx

Cathy