We are walking in a forest in Drenthe. Sturdy walking shoes under neat clothing. The wind is blowing hard and the ground is wet. Colleague Irma van Steijn and I avoid low-hanging branches and large puddles while exchanging information about our work.
The conversation turns to writing and I curiously ask Irma about her habits regarding her successful series of columns. Where does she find inspiration? When does she have to hand in columns, how many words can she use? Irma patiently answers my questions, thinks for a moment and then asks one back: ‘Wouldn’t you like to write columns?’
I’ll have to think about that. I like writing. Of the process of getting sentences onto paper in a certain, flowing way. From weighing words and looking for synonyms if they seem to fit better. Of writing down statements that I like, that I keep thinking about, with the idea that one day I will write something about them. I save these statements, so to speak. And the collection is somewhere waiting to be used.
Seasoned writers or psychologists
Suddenly ‘someday’ seems within reach. Then I have doubts. In my mind, writing columns and books is something for seasoned writers or psychologists. People who have made their mark in the profession. Who have worked hard for years and have acquired thorough knowledge of their population and the human psyche. Who, while drinking red wine and smoking a cigar or pipe, twirl their mustaches while muttering ‘hmm hmm’ and say very smart things.
Probably a hopelessly outdated concept, and I rarely come across these people, but hey, that’s how it goes in my head. I conveniently forget that I have been on my way to mastering this wonderful, ever-changing profession for thirteen years now.
The seed has been planted
And yet. Yet the seed has been planted. In the week that follows, all the beautiful sentences and words from recent years will resurface. I open the file I created for it. The sentences that are already there slowly transform into stories. Like apples on a tree in autumn, after careful consideration, suddenly ready to be picked.
I decide to ignore the outdated concept in my head of men with mustaches and send Irma a message. Suddenly the curious questions I asked her last week also potentially relate to me: ‘It seems like a lot of fun. How does that work?’
Well so. And so here I am. In a corner that I can share with Irma from now on. Nice to meet you. I’m curious how the apples will taste. You too?