Wednesday, April 21, 2010


Yesterday I got the mail with a word that's never used at hearingdistance of me: "deadlines".

I grew up with agenda's, and when I started writing and organising at secondary schools a new concept entered my life: deadlines.

When I left university I told my editors: no deadlines for me anymore.
You can tell me when you like my writings finished, and you'd better move the date 14 days forward, but never ever use the word again.

I hate deadlines, and there's something within me that makes me feel numb and completely uncaring.
One way or another I don't feel the pressure other people do.
Instead I seem to be conditioned to feel a silent protest growing inside me, which attacks all normal sense of politeness and agenda-consciousness. It makes me aware of what happens in the world even more than usual, and ofcourse these matters are far more important than pleasing an editor with a text.

When you need a text about a subject within an hour, you can ask me kindly if I'm able to, and you'll get the text within 45 minutes print ready.

I'm not one of those writers who need a desk editor going through my lines and an end editor checking him.
Just tell me who's going to read my stuff, what it's used for, and you'll get it.
Without the typos you'll find in this blog.

Writing is, for me, a process which runs in my mind when I do my things.
It's like steaming vegetables. Put in the ingredients, close the lid and leave it.
No need to watch the clock, because the smells will tell you when the dish is ready.
My writings are ready when I feel the urge to sit down and forget everything around me.
The whole text will pour out, all my senses are stretched to maximum length to pick from my brain the right words, the best sentences and the logical course of the story.

No need for deadlines to cross a natural process.


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