This is Chris writing to you. It's been three weeks since I sold my trademark Immigrant Spirit, in order to focus on writing fiction.

This has been my dream for most of my life, and now I have two years’ time to focus on spreading joy, instead of being useful. (Basically I opted to become useless, but pretty. 😉 )

I was happy when Kevin took over and I was looking forward to my new life as a writer.

But I must tell you:  It’s not going well.

This is how I imagined my life as a writer:

Walking down to the beach with a fresh coffee in my hand. Sitting in the sand, the thunder of the Atlantic in my ear, watching the waves break on the sand of Playa de Sardinero.  I imagined myself typing away on my Remarkable Two, giggling like a mad man while I invented another weird obstacle to throw at my protagonist. A big grin would grow on my face while the hero of my story would realize that every solution, he found just created an even bigger, crazier challenge. Until he would feel that the whole Universe had conspired against him. (No, it’s just me, having fun.)

Well, the joke is on me.

I love writing. It is my favorite way to make sense of the world, connect myself to reality (weirdly enough) and to experience the source of all true happiness:


Spending time on one single task, that is challenging and that occupies all your mental bandwidth creates pure, undiluted joy. The kind of joy that we experienced when we were children. This is what I want to create in my writing and this what I hoped to experience while writing.

Guess what:

I have small children.

My first two weeks as a professional writer of fiction turned out to be a never ending “to do” list – with a complete absence of writing. The moment I was free to write, my kids got sick and the little bundles of joy stayed at home 24/7. Which turned me into waiter and cook at a crowed restaurant “Table five, wants another wine”, “Table three is not happy with the soup”, “Table eight wants to pay”… All now, now, now.

I can’t have an uninterrupted moment to finish a single thou…

Right now, it is deep in the night. But is there peace and quiet? Of course not. My son is next door, loudly complaining that he has to sleep. He's just seven years old, but his voice could easily reach the last seat in a full theatre – just speaking at his normal volume. (A gift that all men in my family share.)

His voice is also high. The voice of a child. And it is piercing my thoughts and keeping me from writing the smart, educated thoughts that I am capable of.

This is why I come to you.

I want to recreate the endless optimism that we all felt as children. The story that I write will be fun. Full of weird, but cool action, and surprisingly deep insights. Simple laughs for smart people.

To write optimistic and fun, I need fuel for my soul.

More kindness, more trading of silly jokes and more conversations that are intellectually stimulating and don't include references to Paw Patrol or Minecraft.

In short:

I miss you, my readers. You and I had many honest conversations over the years. I made myself useful and did my best to guide you towards success.

Will you now allow me to become “useless, but pretty”? So that you and I can experience undiluted joy through wonderful stories?

This is me coming over to your house, asking you if you can come out and play.

Click here to sign up to my new newsletter and I will share my stories with you.

I wish you joy.

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