Bellilog

The end is coming

2010-01-28T17:03:00.001-01:00

In the not too distant future this blog will be discontinued.
Worse.
It will disappear.

30 weeks

2010-01-16T06:34:00.002-01:00

Damn, this new year is fast. More than two weeks gone already. I'm still scrambling here, looking back (always a bad idea). But I was counting, you see. I like to count, can't help it. This is what I counted: last year I spent thirty weeks writing, full time - on average six days a week. That is what I wanted to know and now that I know it, I am satisfied. Thirty weeks is not bad.
The other twenty two I spent travelling, researching, meeting, interviewing, reading, discussing projects, revising and all the other things I do. And I had some time off, I guess. Not much though.

Booming business

2009-11-27T12:33:00.004-01:00

Down the road from here the French army has a good size shooting range, just east of Bourges. With a length of more than 35 kilometers it is perfect for practising with the larger models guns, canons, howitzers or whatever it is they use these days.
About once a month our windows rattle and the ground shakes. A deep booming thunder rolls through the valley as they let fly twenty or so shots that seem almost lazy in the way the sounds rumbles away. There is a strange reassurance in the violence of the explosion and the languid travel of the boom, as if it is enjoying the countryside as it goes

Switch in the making

2009-11-27T12:23:00.003-01:00

Five months in Germigny drawing to a close, from the first weeks of summer almost to the beginning of winter. Months of writing, practically without interruption: so many words, so many pages, so many hours, so many days - this blog suffered the consequences.
So be it.
Sunday is switch day, back to the Netherlands. Two new books in first draft. The next months will be devoted to revisions and corrections, and that is just fine. I like doing revisions and I don't mind corrections. Truth is, I like most everything about writing. Can't be helped. Others like fishing, I don't.

Something I thought

2009-08-10T09:12:00.002-01:00

Since we are here, I have removed six tree stumps, four of which were stuck in very stony soil as they had grown through the remnants of a small house. The house, or what was left of it, was taken down three years ago. The trees were chopped at the same time to facilitate recuperating the stones. Small as the house was, it had been built with natural stone and that is something you do not want to waste.
The stumps remained, their roots firmly stuck beneath an old stone floor, as I discovered when I attacked the first one. I dropped the axe and the spade and returned them to the shed. Let the stumps be, I thought. They weren't that big and they weren't bothering anyone. Removing all four of them was something I thought I could never achieve.
I did. Maybe they weren't bothering anyone, but they were bothering me. This summer I did what I thought I couldn't - for lack of conviction or lack of force or lack of tools or all of the above.
The last one came out yesterday morning. They are gone, and so is something I thought. It was like digging out two things at the same time.

How cool they fly

2009-08-07T14:30:00.006-01:00

House martins are practising in the courtyard today. They dive in from the side, right down to a few inches above the gravel, shoot along between the house and the linden trees, then pull up in a silently cutting curve and disappear over the top of the last tree.
Like teenagers in a half pipe.
I have opened the window to hear their chatter. Sometimes they assemble in one of the trees and they talk and talk and talk. Sometimes one of them flies straight into my room, does a mid flight about turn and accelerates back out again. I wonder if they know how cool they fly.
Let's assume they do.

Key Stroke

2009-07-15T11:27:00.002-01:00

My computer is suffering, it loses letters while I write. The keys make all the right noises, but somewhere between the click and the screen things go wrong. Sometimes half a word just disappears, and if it's a short word, none of it may come through. It simply fails to register.
Writing always presumes attention for detail, but this is a bit much. Two thousand words a day is more than it seems. At this rate I may end up writing my next book twice: once to write it and once to nail down all the letters.

Yes, no trees

2009-07-09T12:07:00.003-01:00

My neighbour decided that he had too many trees in his garden, so he called in a lumber guy, and the lumber guy brought along a mate. Two men. Two chainsaws. Two days work. They felled seventeen trees, big ones. Seventeen. Poplars and acacia. The saws whined and growled, the trees groaned and hit the ground with a depressing thud. One after the other. It is amazing how fast twenty five years of growth can be brought down, all because he was afraid that the next storm could land one of them on his house.
Not anymore. They are gone. The storm came from below, fuel driven.

Hardly any time

2009-05-12T08:39:00.004-01:00

As soon as I arrive here, I take off my watch and lay it on a chair next to my bed. From then on I live without time, as much as possible. Days go by, weeks, and the only time I keep is when cooking: eleven minutes for the potatoes, forty minutes for the rice, nine minutes for the pasta (sometimes a little longer) and thirty minutes, then fifty minutes and finally thirty five minutes for the bread. Stuff like that.
Time becomes food.
We eat it.
And if time has done it's work well, the food is good.
Otherwise there is hardly any time at all, until we leave. Which is all too soon.

Finding home

2009-05-09T05:18:00.007-01:00

A few days ago a swarm of bees descended on the garden. There were thousands of them. They settled on a branch of an apple tree. They probably would have been happy there, but me, not being a bee, thought we had to do something. I called a man here in the village who is wanting to become a beekeeper. He has some hives that he built, nice cosy wooden boxes, but no bees.

Small point, but vital.

He came, laid a white sheet under the branch and set an empty hive at one end of the sheet. By applying some citronella paste the hive was rendered attractive to the bees. He then climbed a little step ladder next to the tree and proceeded to whack the branch, causing the bees to fall onto the sheet. A few of them were a little upset, but most of them didn't seem to mind the treatment. They landed on the sheet and rummaged about as if that is what they normally did between five and six in the afternoon. The scout bees set off to find out where they had landed and pretty soon sent word to the troup that there was an empty house just up that-a-way, and let's go live there. Which they did. The erratic movement on the sheet suddenly took on direction and the colony moved into the hive. They didn't fly, they walked. No sweat, no problem, no hurry. Two hours later they were all in there.

The beekeeper, who was by now truly a keeper of bees, got stung fifteen times, but he didn't care. He was as relaxed about the stings as the bees were about the entire process of moving house.

Back on track

2009-05-08T09:13:00.001-01:00

In the train. Country goes by. Time, too. Going and nowhere to go. Watch the outside (Netherlands, Belgium, France) and move on the inside (stories unfold).

Fun

2009-04-16T14:00:00.002-01:00

There is so much to do, always, and sometimes I don't even know where all these things come from. They are just there. Stuff to write, deadlines to meet, people to see, parents to take care of, talks to have, cleaning, shopping, maintenance of just about everything (the time is right for maintenance-free houses, cars, washing machines, cooker hoods, lawn mowers and gardens in general - now!), administration to do and health to watch. Sometimes I wish for a hotel bar, some place where I don't speak the language, sign language between me and the barkeep, a glass of whisky.
No daylight required.

Tennessee

2009-03-15T08:47:00.003-01:00

A couple of hours journey and I am in a small town called 'Steenwijk'. The train rolls into a tiny two track station, one track going north, the other south. There is level crossing to get from the platform in between the tracks to the station house and the town beyond. I walk the few streets to the market square, which lives up to it name, it is really square. The town is spotless, sidewalks are clean, streets are empty and tidy. The square is the town's pride and joy, every building lining its four sides has been restored, brickwork is crisp, paintwork is gleaming and in the last light of day there is a shine to the place that pulls the ancient structures out of past centuries into the world of halogen lights and flatscreen displays. An old town with modern means.
There is a choice of restaurants, all variations on Dutch cosyness, dark brown wood and new world wines. In between them is the Tennessee Steak House with wild west paraphernalia, Indian clothing decorating the walls, feathers and arrows, lots of red and white and loud country music pouring non stop from car radio speakers set in the ceiling.
I pick a table and look out over the empty square. Order my steak, that's why I am there, and a diet Coke. I could be anywhere, but I am in Tennessee, Steenwijk.
See the world, nothing is real.

Id Entity

2009-03-13T12:25:00.004-01:00

What is left after all construction is removed? The subconscious self as a package, a parcel to be unwrapped. The difference between the sleeping me and the awake me. Somewhere in there things are determined.
Some people experience sleeping and dreaming as life without boundaries, without limitations . To them waking up means having to force themselves back into the straightjacket of the physical world. The limited world.
To me it is the other way around. I love sleeping, but I wake up to a part of life in which I can actually do things. Waking up means all restrictions are lifted, I am no longer caught in sleep and dreams that chase me down an increasingly narrow lane.
It is an Id-thing.
Who I am, wo we are, is determined by our ego and our Id. Those two make us who we are, they move each other about without telling us what they're doing.
Does your night reach into your day? Does your sleep resist your waking body? Do your dreams fight our thoughts? Do you feel you want to scream to keep the day at a distance? If only for a few minutes?
That's your Id kicking your ego. An active Id entity keeps the flow between your conscious self and your subconscious self open and therefore your subconscious self barges in whenever it feels like it. Dreaming and waking fade into one another and the waking world, the physical world will lose it's attraction, because nothing can compete with dreams. Not for the Id.
But if your day reaches into your night, if your thoughts resist your dreams, if your body shakes off sleep like a dog shakes off water, then your Id is folding. The physical world invades your dreams and your dreams will lose, because nothing can compete with the real thing, the action. Not for the ego.

No confidence

2009-02-12T12:11:00.001-01:00

Economy is a matter of confidence, that is what they say. And confidence is fuelled by communication. So, if we are in a crisis these days it is because confidence is down and because the media give too much attention to negative news, which further erodes confidence.
Does that sound right?
No, it doesn't. It is management-speak and it should not be trusted. Economy is a matter of money, and money is based on value. If you dilute the value the amount of money will increase and there will be riches. Enormous riches. Until it becomes clear how much its value has been diluted at which point the riches disappears.
More and more the economies of the west are based on value dilution. Services dilute value, marketing dilutes value, branding dilutes value and management dilutes value. All these activites do not make anything, they do not create, build, construct or anything of that order. They dilute the value of something else.
To confuse matters, we call it added value, but that is wrong. Branding for example increases the price of a product without increasing its value. It doesn't add, it dilutes. As soon as services are packaged and marketed as products, value dilution is leveraged. And that's when things really start to go wrong.
It has nothing to do with confidence. When money starts losing its value, people become poorer, and it will take a while before the money has regained enough value to support another round of dilution by managers and marketeers, by branding or by services.
Wait for it.

Regime change

2009-02-11T15:00:00.002-01:00

Can we at least consider the option of regime change in the Vatican? Send in special forces, it couldn't possibly take them more than an afternoon. The boys would be back before the weekend. Fly the German guy out to California, set him up in a nice little appartment and release him in the Castro district. Without condoms.

Taking care

2009-02-08T07:28:00.002-01:00

Care is thoughtless. The more you care, the less you think. It is a sensory thing, you open up and all signals feed directly into actions. You run on automatic. Care bypasses the brain, because the thought center tends to slow you down. You take care of give care or maybe you just care. But nobody thinks care. As soon as you start thinking, you stop caring

I am a question

2009-01-17T13:58:00.002-01:00

About a week ago one of the questions in a television quiz show here in the Netherlands was: Who wrote the thriller "De Macht van meneer Miller"?
I believe I have reached as high as one can, I have become a question in a quiz show. What else is there?
(Two out of three contestants knew the answer, so I am not even a difficult question.)

Without a sound

2008-12-31T15:13:00.002-01:00

Less than seven hours to the new year. Out here, the moment will pass quietly. From one minute to the next is no great deal. Shutters closed, no one on the streets, no fireworks to chase away evil spirits, no display of plenty, no churchbells, no television.
Just us, slipping into 2009.

Basic scheme

2008-12-19T18:51:00.002-01:00

Roads round the tile works are thick with red clay these days. Designer mud.
Fields green, sky blue, mud red. Very basic colour scheme.
Hard to beat.

When

2008-12-18T14:50:00.001-01:00

No time most of the time, at the same time anytime has been no time for a long time and just for one time I would like all the time.

Car sucks

2008-12-08T15:36:00.004-01:00

Every other day I am in the car, three gear changes and I am out of the village. It's a small village, one road straight through, one parallel in back and three side roads to the left. That's it. I take the last one, a back road to the next village, and within a minute I am out among the fields and woods. Narrow tarmac roads crawl up and down easy hills, wind around farms. I gun the engine and shift up, push the car through a long curve, driving. The road tips down and wraps around an old shed, cows looking on with little interest - I am a thing moving through their world of grass and endless outside. A buzard sails overhead. And suddenly I realize that this is why I am going to the next village. The car hugs the blacktop, sucks it.

Useless

2008-12-07T13:55:00.003-01:00

Send in a story and wait for response. Reaction. Opinion. Verdict. Is it good or bad? Or so-so? Or what is it?
Whatever it is, it is always a wait, a time in nowhere, not even in between, because it isn't in between anything. In waiting all borders disappear. Anything can happen. It is a time of endless possibilities. That is why it is so useless.

Fingers

2008-12-06T15:39:00.004-01:00

Laid five cord of wood in the garage. Chances are I won't be able to write for next few days. My fingers feel like they are going to need prolonged recovery.
Wait till I start chopping.

Walls

2008-12-05T09:50:00.002-01:00

In back of the house the garden is enclosed by walls. Old French walls. All natural stone. Two meters high. In places overgrown with ivy, in other places cleared of vegetation. In some places falling apart. But they are there, high and silent and long. One day they may collapse, but until that day they aren't going anywhere. They have been there for more than a hunderd and sixty years, doing what they are supposed to do: being walls. Wonderful walls. They hold back time.

Living with a leak

2008-12-03T10:31:00.004-01:00

I leak. I didn't used to, but since this thing has been removed - actually it was a thing in a thing, but to get rid of the first thing they had to take the whole second thing out - I suffer a leak. Not all the time, but almost every day. Sometimes I will have a leakless day, and when I do I immediately forget to take the required precautions: walk slowly, take small steps, don't run, don't jump, don't laugh too loud, don't make sudden moves, don't lift heavy things and sit down before coughing, sneezing or blowing my nose. And when I forget ... well, no need to repeat myself. There are other precautions, but this is enough to give a general idea of how leaking tends to affect my life. It puts a new perspective on taking it easy.

Skimmed

2008-11-19T16:57:00.003-01:00

While I spread the word about identity fraud and identity theft, a friend had her bank account drained. She called, not knowing what to do, all her savings siphoned off, the ATM suddenly informing her that she had insufficient funds to make a withdrawal. Any withdrawal.
Thank you.
Goodbye.
The bank will cover her loss, because the bank knew and they thought they had blocked her card, somehow they forgot and, well, you know how things go with the credit crunch and all - they had other things on their minds. Apparently. But she was skimmed and for more than three weeks daily withdrawals were made in London, to the maximum allowed on foreign ATM's.
So this is what gets me. There is a team in Amsterdam skimming cards, and as soon as they have skimmed one they send the information to London, by email or sms or whatever. In London there is someone, of more than one, who immediately starts tapping the account for as much as he can. There is a degree of organisation there that is scary. I want to believe I get burned by some guy who runs round the corner to the next ATM, hurrying, out of breath, nervously punching in my code, waiting for the money while his heart races, looking over his shoulder while he tries to disappear.
That I can live with. Not very easily, but I can.
But this remote controlled robbery is a sin.
I tell you.

Travelling

2008-11-05T12:40:00.002-01:00

Spent the day in trains, going south and east in the morning and back north and west in the afternoon. Five hours in a quiet compartment, space on the move. Comfortable chair, the country slipping by outside. Gray light, clouds, some rain. Very little detail. Fields, buildings, sky and roads all seem to blend. Flat country. Flat progress. Moving through a part of the world that has little to show, not much to be seen, and therefore my travelling is just that: travelling. Nothing else. The less I see, the more I simply travel. Reduced to the act of going and returning. Sometimes it is that simple.

Melt into it

2008-10-21T08:29:00.003-01:00

Just off the highway, in a hotel. It must have eighty or even a hundred rooms. Large restaurant, spacious lobby, bar and nineteen conference rooms in different sizes. There is a business centre, whatever that is, with a lonely computer sitting on a desk in a corner. Corridors running every which way. Surrounded by a huge parking lot.
I am one of five guests. In the restaurant the others have already finished. And left. Service is there for me. In the bar the barkeeper, a twenty year old woman named Joyce, is there for me. The woman at the reception desk is there for me. There are three cars in the parking lot and one of them is mine. I can't decide whether it is recession coming home or just seasonal quiet. The result is the same: lots of space. It is not attractive or pretty or stylish. None of that. It is upholstered utilitarian. Mostly ugly. But there is so much of it that I just melt into it.
Red and green carpet.
Orange walls.
Deep red window panes.
What's to like?
Nothing.
But it is this feeling of being able to expand that draws me ever further.

Road to the sun

2008-09-24T05:42:00.002-01:00

Seven thirty and I am out the gate, cross the road and cut through the village. Eight, may be nine houses and then I'm among the fields. A red sun rising in the mist. And the road. It's a small road, two and a half meters wide, no more. It goes up the hill, in an unwavering line, straight into the sun. Just up ahead.
I know that beyond the top of the hill the road curves to the right and misses the sun by, oh ... miles. Easily. But from where I am standing it is the vision, not the knowledge, that grabs me. A hundred meters, that's all it is.
So quiet.
So big.

She runs

2008-09-20T11:05:00.003-01:00

I sit on the grass and slap my hands on the ground. Dog looks at me, all attention. I slap the ground again and she jumps at me. I push her away and slap the ground with both hands. She cocks her head and comes at me again. We wrestle and I push her away. She rolls over and jumps up. She is happy beyond her own comprehension. I slap the ground again and her enjoyment takes over. She jumps up and she runs. At full tilt, she runs away from me, around a small shrub, and comes barrelling down at me, as fast as she can. She races past me and continues to the other end of the garden, still going all out. There she turns again and heads back for me, thundering down the lawn.
I slap the ground with both my hands and she zips past me as close as she can, brushing against me as she runs. She runs and runs and runs, pouring out her energy to fulfill this joy she cannot understand and cannot contain.

Like dew

2008-09-11T14:18:00.002-01:00

They come unannounced, sometimes more than once a day. Lost thoughts. They move into my head, have good shake, like a wet dog, leaving traces all over the place - don't ask me where - and disappear. Just as easily as they came. Thoughts. Good thoughts. But lost from the moment I have them. For some reason they don't seem to find their way into my memory. They simply slide in, shake themselves up, and slip out.
And for days afterwards I scan my brain to see if I can locate one of those traces. There has to be something there, somewhere. A shining droplet, like dew on my synapses.
There ...

Patriotism ...

2008-09-07T12:26:00.002-01:00

... is the marketing of hate and fear.

Hunt

2008-09-06T14:10:00.002-01:00

September 5 and gunshots surround the house. The French are shooting their way into a state of primeval satisfaction. Even in the dark, they start at five thirty in the morning and continue until well after sundown. They must be using lights. No so much primeval, but primevil.

Biting the bullet

2008-09-05T10:45:00.002-01:00

Yesterday, CEL made the shortlist for the Diamond Bullet, the Flemish annual award for Crime Fiction in the Dutch language. GREAT! September 18, I will be in Antwerp, together with five other nominees - Escober, Aad van den Heuvel, Felix Thijssen, Simon de Waal and Patrica van Mierlo - to bite that bullet and to find out who gets to take home the trophy.

Away

2008-09-01T12:22:00.003-01:00

I am away, in France. Since yesterday without many of the French. They have ended their summer break and have gone back to work. This last weekend they drove back to the cities, leaving 'la campagne' to those who stay behind.
Like me.
Sun is gone, too, which is a shame, but when it comes back I will still be here, just as away as before. Away is the best place to be for writing. More away equals more words. It's that simple.
But after a while you start thinking: I have been away for so many months, is this still away? Or has this away become here and has back home become away? How can away be here?
I don't know, but it is.
I must have wandered into a wormhole.
Excellent.
I can recommend it.

Two kinds of men

2008-07-21T09:21:00.004-01:00

When a man goes to the toilet to take a leak, he faces a choice that defines the kind of man he is. The choice is this: in order to free his urinal equipment does he pull down his underpants or does he simply whip it out the bottom of his underwear? In other words: Is he a Puller-downer or is he a Whipper-outer?
Each man is one of these . Never both. Believe me. A Puller-downer will not Whipper-out. Much less will a Whipper-outer ... let's leave it at that.
Why should he?
That choice defines him. Right there, standing in front of the toilet bowl, his character is revealed, because surely most of this man's important character traits can be deduced from his choice. Careful or impulsive? Efficient of effective? Talker or listener?
Really, there are two kinds of men in this world and because of it I am sure that somewhere the Puller-downers are fighting the Whipper-outers.
They must be.

Frenzied life

2008-07-09T09:34:00.001-01:00

Without heaven or hell, it is all about here. And as here is finite, we need more now.
Crazy logic.

The moment rules

2008-07-06T14:28:00.002-01:00

A spiritual and a commercial movement seem to come together, unwittingly. Now that we are all out of god, or at least some of us are, we have gone out shopping for something to believe. It appears shops in the East are full of goodies, thousands have been there to stock up on insight and meaning.
That's a good thing.
We don't want to run out of meaning.
One of the items they brought back was a new consciousness of life, of the moments it is made of. A singular attention for whatever it is that we do. Be it washing up or writing a novel, painting the house or riding the Tour de France - you do it with all your attention and all your senses. You let other thoughts go and assemble yourself around the task at hand. One by one you shut down other considerations, worries, ideas, ambitions and needs. You do what you do and you do it fully. When you are with friends you are with them and the more you can let other things go, the more you will experience and enjoy their company and the more that experience will mean. For them and for yourself. You expand the moment by living it to the full. You learn by fulfilling your potential in that moment.
Good stuff.
At the same time the experience economy is on the rise. Everything we buy must also be an experience. Just buying new shoes or breakfast cereal or holidays isn't enough. We are in need of experiences, be it rafting, bungee jumping, hicking through Iran, helping victims of a natural disaster or a visit to Disney World.
And every experience must be bigger and better and more intense, louder, higher and faster than the previous. We are in the middle of an economic life cycle that can only go one way.
The media, too, are part of the experience economy. For the love of ratings and circulation figures they serve us what we want: Moments filled to the brim with experience. Overflowing. Every possible sensory stimulus crammed into each moment. Shouting, yelling, singing, dancing, laughing we turn up the volume until we can only hear ourselves.
The moment rules.
Live it.
Eat it.
Scream it.
This is your life.
And this.
And now.
And again.
The spiritual and the commercial coincide and produce moments never to forget. Until the next moment. A tsunami draws media from all over the world: television, radio, newspaper, photo, blog - there are thousands of people there to pump up the moment. Biggest ever.
European football championship.
The China Olympics.
We are here.
You are here.
Give.
Live.
On to the next one.
Temptation Island, Expedition Robinson, Big Brother.
We are creating hysteria. We are marketing hysteria. We are selling hysteria.
Small wonder that these are hysterical times.

Changing lanes

2008-07-03T12:47:00.003-01:00

Things happen. You're driving along, minding your own business, trying to keep your car in good condition, trying not to cause danger to others on the road - that kind of stuff. I've been doing it for almost fifteen years. Published nine books, well received, some more so than others, won a couple of prizes and a few more nominations. All very well and nice. People treat me as a known quantity: a commercial guy with an interesting hobby. I'm in Lane 2. Good lane to be in. People never talked down to me, even though it was clear I had no business in Lanes 3 or 4 or whatever other lanes there are.
So, I'm in Lane 2, when suddenly book number 10 hits the top of the charts, number 1 in the bestseller's list. The book has been out for a couple of months (well received, won another award - business as usual) when everything changed. Just when I was just getting my thoughts back together, trying to figure out what my next book is going to be about. I am excited beyond what I am going to tell you here.
Before I knew what had happened, I had changed lanes. I suddenly find myself in Lane 3. Very good lane to be in. It's not that people start talking up to me, but I find there are certain things I don't have to explain anymore. Not to the same extent anyway.
Example. Someone had an idea, a proposal that didn't sit well with me, and I sighed. A little sigh, no more than a short escape of air from my lungs, maybe dressed with a touch of disappointment. I pressed my lips together and pushed the air out through my nose, accompanied by a quick internal hm. That's all. I always voice my first disagreement like that. Always have done. But no-one ever seemed to notice.
Lane 2. Typical.
When you're in Lane 2 you have to honk your horn and flash your lights, and even then there is no guarantee that people will respond in the way you would like them to.
So I sighed my little sigh and prepared for some honking and flashing. But as I breathed in to go verbal and explain why this idea was no good, the woman on the other end of the line withdrew the the whole thing, saying it was a rediculous proposal anyway and she was going to sort things out and get back to me.
Bang. Like that. She hung up.
Lane 3. Definitely. Maybe 4. I don't know, I'm new here.

One

2008-06-18T11:13:00.000-01:00

This message is short: one.
That is all.

No sports, no gods

2008-06-09T18:15:00.003-01:00

Any interaction with religious people is cumbersome. It is like talking to someone who says his house is haunted. That may or may not be so, I wouldn't be able to tell. I have never seen a ghost or a spirit or anything that resembles it. So, in order to interact we agree not to mention the ghost, because it tends to get in the way of other subjects. It is awkward at best, apparently the ghost is serious about his business, and from time to time ghost-like subjects enter into the discussions. Certain things are 'holy', meaning the ghost has had something to say about it and the haunted man fears the rules laid down by the ghost. The ghost also appears to have the exclusive rights to certain ideas and actions. The sanctity of life, genetic modification, embryo selection - anyone who wants to move into that field , is accused of wanting to act as if 'he is the ghost'. We all pretend to accept the argument, because we have agreed not to talk about the ghost.
That is the level of discussion and it is gobbledygook. Freedom of religion and the duty of all people to show respect for religion are said to be good things. I don't know why.
So, here I am, June 2008, ethics and soccer fill our days. I am hoping to spend all of this summer as far away from major sporting events as possible. Unfortunately, I am still in the Netherlands at the start of the European Soccer Championships, but I will be gone before the tournament is over. By the time I get back, even the Olympics will have closed. All I have to do is to steer clear of the Tour de France and Wimbledon. Staying outside the reach and influence of sports is becoming as difficult as keeping enough distance from religious opinions in order not to have to hear them.
Impossible.
Times are hard.

Number 3

2008-06-04T06:23:00.002-01:00

Yes.
It happened.
Yesterday evening I won the annual crime fiction award in the Netherlands. For the third time. And contrary to what anyone might think it just gets better every time. I don't know why that is. May be because writing CELL was more important to me than writing had been before. It was a way of putting treatment behind me. Moving on. So number 3 is more than just a book award. It's me being back.

Mixing my metaphores

2008-05-06T06:31:00.004-01:00

I was having dinner in the Greenwhich Café in Odessa. They don't speak English there, contrary to what the name of the restaurant suggests, because the chef is French. While Sinatra sings 'In the wee small hours', I have the best steack I have had in years. Medium rare with sweet onions. Wonderful. Glass of red wine to go with it. French. In my line of view, magazine cover beautiful women smile at men. One blond the other black haired. Neither natural, but if I were a camera I would love them. When Ukranian women are beautiful they are among the most beautiful in the world. The blond one laughs. Her mouth is the centre of her beauty. 'Come fly with me', Sinatra sings. I am at a loss here. The waiter stumbles over English and French. My Russion is non-existent. The black haired one picks at her food as if it's the best thing she has ever done. Her smile sets new world records. The moelleux au chocolat is unparalleled. Sinatra is down to 'Love and marriage'. Da. I'll have coffee.
They do not speak English here.
Not a word.
Come on, Frank, say it ain't so.

Number 10

2008-04-12T12:58:00.004-01:00

'CEL' is out. My tenth book. That's something. And the presentation was great, a party ... what can I say? I love it. The book is being very well received. Better than any previous book. Reviews are getting better every day. I guess that could be a prelude to a down swing. May be, but so far so good.
I'll wait for the rest, smiling.

Out of sync

2008-02-03T18:45:00.000-01:00

Writers live out of sync, that is the guiding principle of their lives. While they work, nobody notices them. Their work makes them invisible. When they are finally done, they have a manuscript, a wad of pages, in print or in digital blips. Handing in the manuscript is a huge moment for the writer, but to the recipient - usually the publisher - it is nothing, because he has yet to read what the writer has written. He doesn't know anything, so what can he say? He says: Thank you.
Is that all?
By the time the publisher has read the manuscript and is ready to respond, the moment has passed. The writer listens to his observations, probing questions, well meant advice and off the wall interpretations.
Anything goes.
The writer nods and raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, he agrees and disagrees. It doesn't matter, this is the publishers moment. Not his.
His work goes into production. More and more people read it. Now, suddenly everybody notices what the writer has done. Opinions and reactions start coming in, the publisher is making plans while the writer is trying to sort through his brain, trying to strap the next idea to his running board, ready to move on.
The correctors correct or the actors rehearse, the writer starts to withdraw. While the work comes to life, the writer disappears. At the book launch - or on opening night - amidst cries of enthousiasm, the writer says goodbye.
Permanently out of sync.

Here comes the sun

2007-12-08T14:17:00.000-01:00

Twenty past eight. Dog and I just rounded the corner at chateau Gaillard as the sun came up over the valley. Took my breath away. I saw it dancing in the cold morning air before it disappeared.
- Sit, I said.
Dog sat. She didn't watch the sunrise the way I did, but she was completely at rest, looking out over the valley, intensely happy to be there with me.
So was I.

The rest of the world

2007-12-07T12:54:00.000-01:00

I've been away for a while. Nothing serious, just working hard and being dog tired as a result. No energy left to go out into the rest of the world. Now I'm back in France and sleeping well - god, that is so good - and slowly the words are coming back.
Michael Bellicher Part 2 is in production, title: CELL. Due to be released in the first week of April 2008. Feels good. And even before that my first play will hit the stage. Opening night February 4 in Amstelveen. ''VOLMAAKT GELUK" (Perfect Happiness) starring Renée Soutendijk, Isa Hoes and Rick Engelkes. Feels very good.
Glad to be tired.

Beyond the threshold

2007-10-05T07:05:00.000-01:00

The radio worked, tricked the bad guys into listening to the music, and now they are gone. Can't find them anywhere. They left, not without a trace, but they're gone nonetheless. Retreated beyond a measurable threshold. Just where I want them.

Calling Michael Bellicher

2007-07-23T11:36:00.001-01:00

My room has two windows. They look out on a walled courtyard. My view is restricted, but great, because it is all my own. Every inch of it. Every molecule of it. Not the air of course, but the rest.
I sit at my table, a small desk lamp at my side, and watch the morning sun reach through the trees, touching the windowpane, forming visible rays through the dust on the glass. Outside combine harvesters and other large agricultural equipment roll by, on its way from one field to the next. Life here is filled with sounds, but they all move on, leaving a deep quiet between them. A working quiet. Mister Miller will not be back, but I am calling on Michael Belliger to pick up his blog. He needs to, because a new story is unfolding.

Off the air

2007-07-07T06:28:00.000-01:00

The radio has stopped. Yesterday was the final broadcast and I couldn't stop smiling, radiating, beaming right back at the machine. I can do that. After six and a half weeks of hits, I am feeling a little worse for wear. It is time to tune out, to slip under the radar, to go to ground.
Hope it stops raining.

Radio days

2007-06-05T05:31:00.000-01:00

Once a day, five days a week, I take a train to Amsterdam and tune in to a very local radio station. It reaches no one but me and broadcasts for a hundred seconds. That's all. It plays killer songs, its music is secret, private and deadly. No head phones, but lead slabs to keep the radio right there, inside me, where I boogy to a rythm I can't hear and can't feel. Like being shut out of myself. Work in progress. Don't tamper with the settings. Keep still under all circumstances. Don't move.
Breathe.
And wait.
Thank you mister Den Tex. See you tomorrow.

Short story week

2007-05-28T13:18:00.000-01:00

It is not like I haven't done anything at all. This week three short stories will be published. One in an anthology, an old story that I reworked (considerably) for the book. The second one, an all new story, will be published in the VN Detective and Thriller guide. And the third is a really short piece about the importance of research. The first two, the anthology and the guide, will be presented this Wednesday, May 30, during a special evening in Amsterdam. As you may understand, I have two good reasons to be there, apart from other goods reasons I have.

In deep quiet

2007-05-28T12:34:00.000-01:00

I move about from France to the Netherlands. Now I am here, while I would much rather be there. Isn't that always the problem. And from one hospital to the next. Last Friday was memorable, I visited three hospitals. By the time I got back at the end of the afternoon my hospital tolerance was down to zero. Not much to yap about, so I keep quiet. No blog. Deep quiet. Is the best thing. 'Write when you get work', a friend of mine used to say. Which is good advice, especially if writing is your work.

Too much to say

2007-04-01T13:08:00.000-01:00

Mr Miller is out in Germany. I received a few copies of the book two weeks ago. Beautiful. I hope he will find his way out there. Meantime I have been writing a play, which is a whole diffrent ball game. I haven't finshed yet, but I'm getting there. I was down in France for a couple of weeks writing - which was good. Then I came back up to the Netherlands for a project - which was good - and a meeting - which was good - and a blood test - which was not good. I have been in and out of blood tests since the beginning of February, so the results weren't much of a suprise, I just didn't want them.
Too bad.
The Mr Miller sequel, that has been on the board since the beginning of last year and that was put off because of the operation last summer, now risks being put off again because of radio therapy sessions that are coming my way.
So what? What?
There is too much to say in too little time.
I'll keep quiet.

Mr Miller goes east

2007-02-09T09:51:00.000-01:00

A publisher from Istanbul has shown an interest in Mr Miller, even made an offer for the rights. So, it could be that Mr Miller will move to Turkey next. I wouldn't mind. Who am I kidding, it would be great. And it would be a very good reason to finally go there. May be when the Turkish edition is launched.
Not bad.

Herr Miller

2007-01-05T16:27:00.001-01:00

Jawohl. Received the brochure of Grafit verlag on Wednesday. In it a double page announcing "Die Macht des Mr. Miller", ein unglaublich intelligenter, spannender Roman. To be released in February. So soon!
I was quite speechless for some minutes. What a way to start the new year.

2007

2007-01-01T08:33:00.000-01:00

Quarter past eight this morning I watched day break on top of a dune. Good way to start the new year. In silence. Just the wind and the sand and Anneloes and the dog. Looking west towards the sea, across two miles of dunes. Wonderful. I am so glad new year's eve is gone. I can't stand the fireworks and the indulgence which just gets worse every year. It is supposed to be a party, but it feels like hysteria.
Anyway, came back, made pancakes - so much for my lose weight resolution. They were great. I rolled them and they bled syrup when I cut them.

Five contracts

2006-12-26T08:17:00.000-01:00

Signed five contracts last week, one for a new book and four for new editions of old titels. Five times thirteen pages, in triplicate. Even my own signature looks silly after so many times. But it does feel good. It will be a long time before I sign so many contracts again on one day.

Back, alas

2006-11-05T19:34:00.000-01:00

Two weeks in Germigny, wonderful, found my way back into writing and that did me the world of good. Too bad I'm back. Arrived in The Hague yesterday around four in the afternoon. By nine in the evening I just wanted to go to bed, which I did a half hour later. It is not that I don't like it here, because I do. Today the family celebrated my father's 88th birthday (only on my most optimistic of days do I think I will reach that age) and it was great to be there. My sisters were there, one of my brothers, there were photographs of my parents first great-grandchild - what can I say? Wouldn't have missed it for the world.
But in Germigny I have my own life, a great room with my computer, my notebooks, my ideas and almost every minute of every day is my own. Phone rings twice a week, that sort of 'my own'.

Moskow?

2006-10-08T09:02:00.000-01:00

My mental processes are regaining some speed. After months of reduced activity I can feel something happening up there, and that feels pretty good. I may even plan a little trip as research for a new book. Somewhere between November 5 and November 20 seems the best period.
Moskow?
It's probably really cold there.

Anyway

2006-09-25T14:29:00.000-01:00

Things are just things these days. I bought a fountainpen on e-bay yesterday, a Pelikan. It looked very pretty on the net, so I put in a bid and won, as e-bay calls it. I wouldn't call it winning. I paid for it, so if that is winning my whole life is one continuous win. Anyway, the pen is being sent from Germany, so I should have it by the end of the week.
Physically I'm still improving, slowly but surely. I have been told to be patient and I try to be, but it is also pretty boring from time to time. Then I suddenly feel this great need to be impatient. As much as I can.
Doesn't get me anywhere, but what can you do.

25.09.06

2006-09-25T14:22:00.000-01:00

Only managers need a mission, and a vision, because without one they don't know what they are doing. People with a real profession have no need for missions and visions. That is why managers are such lost souls.

Back & a little Better

2006-09-20T10:52:00.000-01:00

So back in the Netherlands. It's alright, but I miss the space. I miss the time to do whatever it takes to keep getting better. I miss the house and the country. But apart from that I'm quite happy to be back. Getting a little better every day. Lining up meetings to discuss work. Yesterday I met with the first of a number of people who are interested in an option on the filmrights for Mister Miller. Not bad. Although the more I talk to people in the business the more I realize that I should really look much further and deeper into the possibilities. Maybe even make the first moves myself.
I already know I should, but I'm holding off.
Anyway, writing is still hopeless. I've given up trying since we came back. Maybe next week I'll try again. I must, I know. Don't want to get stuck in the sudoku's.

Almost gone

2006-09-08T07:00:00.000-01:00

Friday today. Tomorrow is our last day here in Germigny. Too bad. I was just getting started again. I wrote ten pages in five weeks. Most of them in the last three days. The rest of the time I spent recuperating, which means peeling off wallpaper, sleeping, painting the walls, more sleeping, laying lino, still more sleeping, mowing the grass, and then mowing it again, and again, and again. August has been a real grass grower of a month, which is fine, but 2500 square meters of the stuff tends to keep you busy. No complaints. Time here has been exactly what I hoped it would be, except that I had hoped it would be even longer.
Back in the Netherlands work awaits me. And the doctor, of course. It's been two months since he removed my prostate and now he wants to see how I am doing. And I want to hear what he has to say.

Herr Miller?

2006-09-08T06:54:00.000-01:00

Looks like "Meneer Miller" may be going abroad, to Germany. A small step for mankind, but a giant step for me (you have to keep these things in perspective).

21-08-06

2006-08-21T10:53:00.000-01:00

Where is Meneer Miller? Praise for the book keeps coming in. Even my former publisher (may God hurry up and rest his soul) thought it was a good book, and told me so (which I guess was sort of magnanimous). Nevertheless the book dropped from the charts, so now I would like to know: WHERE IS IT? And is it coming back?
Questions.
Life isn't about questions, I know, but there are always so many of them around.

11-08-2006

2006-08-11T10:31:00.000-01:00

Even afstand van mezelf, als dat zou kunnen. Alles is veel te belangrijk, veel te fysiek, veel te nu. Pal voor mijn neus. De hele tijd maar mijn lichaam. Overal waar ik kijk, waar ik heen ga, kom ik mezelf tegen.
Zo met je lichaam bezig zijn gaat enorm vervelen.

26.07.06

2006-07-27T06:48:00.000-01:00

Er is meer keus in sla en meer geweld dan ooit tevoren. Die twee dingen hebben op zich niets met elkaar te maken.
Hoop ik.
Maar: Hoe groter de keus hoe kleiner de betekenis. Dat wel. Betekenis gedijt alleen in beperking. Hoe minder beperking, hoe meer de betekenis verloren zal gaan. Als je uit twintig soorten sla kan kiezen, dan maakt het niet meer uit. Dan is elke mening niet meer dan marketing. Betekenisloos, dus.
Oorlogen ontstaan door een teveel aan betekenis - te veel beperking (meestal religieus). Zinloos geweld ontstaat door te weinig betekenis - te weinig beperking (meestal liberaal).

24.07.06

2006-07-27T06:44:00.000-01:00

Twaalf dagen na de operatie. Katheter eruit (dat wordt geen hobby) en nu leren de plas ophouden. Duurt een week of drie (meestal), zegt men. Half augustus, dus. Controle moet voortaan van achteren door het aantrekken van de bilspier. De controle via de andere kant, waar een man aan gewend is, die is er niet meer, want die zat bij de prostaat.
Bye bye.
Maar ik kan nu wel weer mijn benen over elkaar doen.

21.07.06

2006-07-21T06:15:00.000-01:00

Even terug. Zondag, zat ik voor het eerst op de w.c., in het ziekenhuis, dat wel, met het infuus naast me aan zo'n verrijdbare kapstok. Niet noemenswaardig, zou je zeggen, en meestal is dat het ook niet. Maar juist omdat het zo gewoon is, was het zo opvallend. Ik zat op de w.c. en poepte. Alsof er niets was gebeurd. Zo voelde dat. Het gewoonste was er nog en dat gaf me een enorm vertrouwen. Daar, op de pot in Emmen, ontstond een compleet en volkomen moment, waar niets aan ontbrak en waar ook niets meer bij kon, niets meer bij hoefde. Het feit dat ik daar zat, drie dagen na de operatie, alleen, zonder hulp, dat ik moest poepen en dat ik KON poepen, was tegelijkertijd vervulling en verwezenlijking. Dat ene moment, of die tien of twintig momenten dat het duurde, was ik zo gelukkig dat al het andere erdoor naar de achtergrond verdween.
Heel mooi.
W.C.-zen.

19.07.06

2006-07-19T13:21:00.000-01:00

Met mijn vingers terug in de wereld. Voelt goed. Na een weekje operatie in Emmen. Prachtige omgeving, daar niet van, Meppen, Aalden, Sleen, leven in een ansichtkaart, compleet met wit randje er omheen. Hoe je ook beweegt, er verandert niets. Maar zo'n operatie snijdt je verband met de rest van de wereld wel even door. Dacht even dat ik daar weken zou liggen, maar dat was mijn gebrek aan ervaring. Zes dagen later zit ik hier weer thuis, want het mes was in handen van een meester.
Dat kan niet anders.
Indrukwekkend. Ik word er helemaal blij van, vreemd genoeg. Maar nu nog even moe, maf en mak. Volgende week nog een keer terug. Bijna klaar, als het goed is.

Signing off

2006-07-11T05:40:00.000-01:00

Well, it's p - 2. I'm off to Emmen. Tomorrow I'll be admitted to hospital there for pre-op, the operation is on Thursday. After that it's five days in hospital for post-op. Healing. Getting better. Recuperating. That kind of stuff.
So I'm off the net for about a week.
That in itself is a kind of holiday.
Wish the surgeon luck.

De macht van meneer Miller

2006-07-11T05:35:00.000-01:00

Meneer Miller is toe aan een eigen carrière. De zomer is de beste tijd daarvoor. Zeker voor hem. Denk daar aan als je hem ergens ziet staan, want de komende tijd kan ik niet meer op hem letten.

Meneer Miller op 47

2006-07-05T12:44:00.000-01:00

Het is zover: Meneer Miller komt binnen op nummer 47 van de Top 60 van de CPNB. Een historisch moment (in mijn eigen geschiedenis dan). Voor het eerst van mijn leven een boek in een lijst. Volgende week woensdag, wanneer de volgende lijst bekend wordt gemaakt, lig ik in het ziekenhuis. Pre-op. Pas over twee weken weet ik of het een eenmalige verschijning is of dat Meneer Miller carrière gaat maken.

Why do you write? (9)

2006-07-05T12:35:00.000-01:00

...my publisher asked me, and I know there is no answer. Writing isn't about answers, not even crime fiction writing. It is about moving. All human activity is about moving, about getting somewhere, physically or mentally, intellectually or emotionally. Some take to sport, others to science or business. I take to writing.
To get somewhere.
I am not so much intrigued by human relations or human tragedy, as I am by the impact of human actions on our lives. What I mean is this: you live your life and you change your life by doing things. Once you decide to do something, whatever it is, good or bad, and you actually DO it, things around you start to change. They adjust themselves to your actions. How they change, is difficult to predict, but they will change. Some people will move away from you; others, sometimes people you don't even know, will move towards you.
Sometimes that is the way I view my writing, and sometimes I write just to find out what will happen. Not in the story, but in my life.

Meneer Miller!

2006-07-04T11:09:00.000-01:00

Gisteren deze reactie gevonden.

http://eherni.blogspot.com/2006/06/charles-den-tex-de-macht-van-meneer.html

Hier past juichende stilte.

A week of fun

2006-06-30T16:00:00.000-01:00

It's been nine days since I won the annual Crime Fiction Award of the Netherlands and it has been one long week of fun. The appartment was filled to capacity with flowers. The largest bouquet of peonies I ever saw was sent by Lira, the main sponsors of the award. Geerte and Peter sent a bunch of beautiful deep red long stemmed roses, I'm sure they were Baccarats. And there were many more. We ran out of vases and had flowers in buckets on the floor. It was great. Even today, a bouquet arrived from Marina. And for nine days there were articles in the newspapers and interviews on the radio. Yesterday there was an interview in NRC Handelsblad. I was quite pleased with it, especially with the heading: "In his actions man shows who he is". Not bad.
Later that day the government fell.
What can I say?
Wonderful.

Ilse in Australia

2006-06-30T15:54:00.000-01:00

In a couple of days my niece, Ilse, is leaving for Australia. She'll be in Meekatharra, deep in the outback, doing something in the gold mine there (don't ask me what). She is one cool geologist and you can keep in touch with her geologising down there on http://ilseinoz.blogspot.com.

Uncertainties

2006-06-28T17:08:00.000-01:00

Nobody is sure. Sometimes we all have our doubts. Do I actually exist or am I no more than a figment of someone else's imagination? And in the latter case, does that someone else exist or what? There is little certainty in life, except that I love it, most of the time. But loving something hardly proves a thing.
If that isn't enough, the prospect of a serious disease doesn't help things along. I went into hospital for a small operation to remove a couple of lymph nodes (about fifteen of them). All in all the operation took less than an hour. They shipped the little nodes off to a lab to find out if the cancer in the prostate had spread or not. It would take a week for the lab to find out.
I waited. I wasn't overly nervous, although I did feel my mind and body slowly retreating into an ever quieter state. But what struck me was the extra dimension of uncertainty. Not being 100% sure I exist, I was now confronted with the possibility that my uncertain life might not even be continued, cancer of the lymph nodes being - on the whole - a much worse deal than cancer of the prostate. And I am kind of fond of my uncertain life, whatever it is.
A week later the lab results came back and the lymph nodes were clean. So I stepped through the double uncertainty and came out with the absolute certainty that my prostate will be removed. Unless someone is imagining things.

Two weeks to p-day

2006-06-28T17:01:00.000-01:00

P-day is when a surgeon will remove my prostate, and p-day is thursday the 13th of July. As Pogo would say: Friday the thirteenth is on a Thursday this month. I am not looking forward to the immediate future, but I'm counting on the somewhat further future to be okay, one way or the other. I'm messing with uncertainties here.

Ja! We liggen eruit!

2006-06-26T04:47:00.000-01:00

Eindelijk. Kan al die oranje-merchandising-heineken-aanstel-ellende weer weg. Eigenlijk zou ik nooit meer iets moeten kopen van een bedrijf dat voetbal sponsort. Maar ja, dat is ook weer zo overdreven.

Mister Miller wins

2006-06-24T16:10:00.000-01:00

De macht van meneer Miller, that is the title of the book that won me the Crime Fiction Award. The power of mister Miller. "It is a visionary book", one of the people at the reception said, and he is an authority. I didn't hear him say it, so I can't say who it was, but one of the jury members told me.
I smiled.
I'm still smiling.

Why do you write? (8)

2006-06-23T14:25:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me.
What do you think?

Gouden Strop!!!!

2006-06-23T14:21:00.000-01:00

...the annual Crime Fiction Award in the Netherlands: I won it two days ago. Yes! Never received so many compliments in such a short time. Wonderful. Should do this more often. Been on a cloud since. Voice is shot to hell.
Great.

Good nodes

2006-06-16T10:50:00.000-01:00

Lab results of the lymph nodes were good. That means cancer hasn't spread. Phew! That is good news. Except that I still need the prostate operation, which is bad news. But it is less bad news than than it could have been. So, the good news is that the bad news isn't the bad news. Just great.
Now I wait for a slot in the operating theatre.

Why do you write? (7)

2006-06-09T05:09:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me, and there isn't a simple, single answer. I write to tell a good story. That comes first and that puts me fair and square in the bracket of a genre writer. Thrillers, in my case. But that isn't the only answer. I also write to find out what I think. That sounds really dumb, I know, but that is the way my mind seems to work. If I don't write, my thoughts get stuck. I get stuck. I don't know why that is. Others can think without ever writing anything. I can't. I am hopeless in that respect. My memory is so bad, that I can never make any progress. I read a book and by the time I finish it, I have already forgotten what it was about. I'm not kidding. I have bookcases full of books that I have read, some of them more than once, and I haven't a clue what is in them.
Study is my big hang up. I can read most things and if I make an effort I can understand most of what I read. But I cannot remember it. I live in the hope (probably false) that I have subliminal memory (whatever that may be) and that I recognize what I know without consciously knowing that I recognize it.
Wouldn't that be efficient?
So I write to hang on to what is all around me, to remember and to understand. That is pretty basic stuff, andI am dependent on it. And while I write, these stories appear. Stories that come from anywhere and that go everywhere. These stories are vehicles, they get me from one place to the next, and I love driving, so I simply have to get in and move with them.

They have been in

2006-06-08T05:27:00.000-01:00

Until a week ago I was unbroken, untampered with. That state of unruptured self has been broken: they have been in. And 'they' is the medical profession. I have been opened up and tampered with. Like I have lost a certain kind of virginity, you see, I had my first operation and it wasn't even a big one. In through the belly, whip out a couple of lymph nodes, close up the openings they made and that was it. I was in and out of the operating theatre in an hour. And now, a week later, the wounds have healed, I am up and about. The only thing that bothers me is a recurring numbness I feel in my upper left leg, as if it has gone to sleep or something like that. No big deal.
The bigger deal is yet to come, because nobody takes out lymph nodes just for fun. They were taken out to check if the cancer I have in my prostate has spread or not. That is the big deal, and either way I am in for further tampering with. But hey, what can you do, once you open the doors for others to come in you shouldn't be surprised if they want to come back.
And they will.
See what they find.

Why do you write? (6)

2006-05-24T13:16:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me.
In a round about way Paul Auster answered that question by telling a few short anecdotes, stories, that were just too good, or beautiful or special to remain untold. Once you see the stories around you, it is hard to keep them to yourself. Not because their meaning is so great, but simply because they are wonderful in themselves. Full of wonder. Or full of weirdness. May be they don't mean anything, but they make you look twice, you think again.
I don't write to thrill people. If a thrill is part of my stories, it is because it was there. The thrill is not the point. It is what happens going from A to B.
I also don't write for the plot or for solving the puzzle. Some of my plots are stronger than ohters, but I will not go out of my way just for the plot's sake.
So, that is what I don't do, and all I am proving is that if you approach something from the negative you can write forever without getting anywhere. Definition by negative only defines the negative.
I write because I know (I feel, I believe) that I have one really good story in me. World class story. And everything I write is my journey to get there. Sometimes I think I am getting close. Other times I feel I am nowhere near.

This is the dog

2006-05-23T12:18:00.001-01:00

Why do you write? (5)

2006-05-23T11:54:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me, and I realized that I haven't a clue. I write because I cannot imagine that I do not write. If I didn't write I would be lost, I would probably work all the time - I don't know. It is not that I am such a great writer, that is not what this is about, I know I am not, but writing is the only thing I really know. Not until this question had I realized how important it is to me and how little I know of the reasons why.
That in itself is rather revealing.
I write to tell about the thin line between reward and greed, how high reward leads to superiority and how superiority leads to self sanctioned greed. Once someone considers it a proven fact that he is better than others (because he makes a million or more a year) then anything goes. Once you are superior, right and wrong disappear as categories within yourself. Other people are wrong, you are right.
You have the money to prove it. Or the power.
I write about good and evil being in everyone and about crossing the line because often that is the only way to go.
At the same time, I never write about the motivations, about the inner thoughts, doubts, fears or barriers. I don't write about what happens inside you when the categories shift. May be I should, I guess, because that is also what happens.

Why do you write? (4)

2006-05-22T17:42:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me.
Good question.
Do I write for myself or do I write to be read? Do I write to sell books? (Of course I do, every writer wants to sell books, but that is not the reason.) Do I write to make money? Do I want to be able to live off the income it generates? Or do I care?
Know what I mean?
Yes, I would love to be able to live off the money I make with my mysteries, my books, plays or screenplays. Yes, that is what I want, but I am nowhere near that. My latest book has now sold 1800 copies and sales are down to a couple of copies every month.
Realistically I should give it up. Maybe write another book once every five years and for the rest concentrate on something else. I have had my shot, I have published eight books and the financial result is pitiful. Sure enough, there are people who like my books, I even have a few fans, but the effort that goes into it is way out of proportion.
But does that matter?
"Why do you write?' my publisher asked me. And sure, I have to make a living. And sure, it would be convenient if writing and making a living could be the same thing. But the question is: would it be anything more than convenient?
Yes, it would. It would be very nice, too. But that is the same thing.
"Why do you write?" is like a hundred questions rolled into one. That is why it is such a good question. The answer can take you anywhere, and even when you think you have covered the ground pretty thoroughly there are still new angles to be found, new answers to be tried.
But at the same time I think of my own motto, the one on my homepage: "Ask not why people do things. Ask what they will do next."
Write another book. I guess.

Dog talk

2006-05-22T17:32:00.000-01:00

I'm learning how to talk to the dog.
Stay. Down. Here. Good girl.
Deep stuff. The dog looks at me knowing I'm giving her life defining commands. Dog talk is easy, as long as you remember one thing: you have to mean what you say. Really mean it. Dogs have a built in bullshit detector. Never fails. You mean it, the dog will take notice. You don't mean it, she won't even look at you. It's a good system, but you have to keep the storyline simple.
Sit.

Why do you write? (3)

2006-05-19T14:27:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me.
I was at a loss for words. Why indeed? What do I have to tell that others can't tell twice as well? It is a confronting question even though he didn't mean it like that. He simply wanted to know what drives me, what my interests are, my ideas, what my passion is (I hate that word!) - that sort of stuff.
The wish to be free of obligations and endless repetition. The wish to find a pivotal experience and to go through it. The idea that only in myself can I find the release of all structures, systems and rules and all that. Freedom is inside. Outside is luxury that most people can't afford - a country house with four acres of land (which is what you need if you want to keep the neighbors at a reasonable distance). And even if you can, you'll still find yourself wanting an extra acre or an extra couple of rooms, a basement or a second house where you can be free of all the obligations of the first.
Ah, the life of plenty.
"Why do you write?" he asked me, and the answer is that I write to be free. It is a state of mind that I am looking for.
The next question of course is this: is that enough to write good stories? Stories that mean something to those who read them.
Probably not.
Surely not.
But at least I got to first base. I find the freedom. It says nothing whatsoever about what I write and why I write that.
A, claro, as one says in Spanish.

Why do you write? (2)

2006-05-11T18:01:00.000-01:00

... my publisher asked me.
'Because it is there', I wanted to answer, but I didn't. I sat and thought, trying to find another way to say the same thing without its lack of intellectual commitment.
Not easy.
'Because it is there' is so tempting. It is why sir Edmund Hillary climbed Mount Everest. 'Why?' the reporter asked. 'Because it is there', Hillary answered.
'Why do you write?'
Because the story is there. All I have to do is sit down and write it. Give it a way to form itself, to grow, to come into existence. Just like climbing Everest further defines the mountain, so does writing prove that the story exists. Even more so.
That is the beauty of it. It is not the creative part that is so attractive, it is helping the poor bugger that cannot speak for itself.
The story is there. It always is, funny as that may seem. It is just a question of finding it. Once you have spotted it, sitting there all huddled up, trying to hide itself from prying eyes, it is almost impossible to leave it alone. You want to care for it, raise it, feed it. Before you know, you reach out your hand and you start tugging, slowly and carefully at first, not wanting to inflict injury by pulling to hard. If it doesn't respond, you start teasing it, trying to tempt it out of its hiding place, working all the tricks and techniques you know.
Then, suddenly, it starts to move, and it comes to you like a neglected and undernourished dog that at first does not know if he can trust you, until he crosses the line, and throws itself at you and just loves you to bits.
If that's not why I write I don't know what is.

Why do you write?

2006-05-08T13:50:00.000-01:00

...my publisher asked me, and it wasn't a loaded question.
'Because I want to tell stories', I answered and while I said it I realized there was something wrong. It isn't that I don't want to tell stories no, the statement I made was correct. Very much so. Telling stories is probably what I like best about writing. Once the pen starts to move I am able to tell things that I didn't know I had in me to tell. I am not much of a talker, I need the isolation to get me started. Writing is a way to open up a part of myself that would otherwise go largely unnoticed. So that wasn't it. If there was something wrong, then it had to be something else.
It may have been the ease with which I said it, too eager to say what I always say. There is nothing wrong with that, except that my publisher was talking shop and he expected me to do the same. As I gave my answer, I realized that I wasn't responding to his question in kind. He asked me why I write to find a way into the story of my next book. I had sent him a one page synopsis, which he liked, but he thinks the story has more potential than I may get out of it if I go about writing it in the way I am used to.
Does this make sense?
It does. You see, my stories tend to happen. They are good stories (most of the time), they are pretty well written (most of the time), they have a good plot, or at least an interesting one, the characters are okay, there is always some of the unexpected to keep the reader on his toes, but... they happen.
'Why do you write?' my publisher asked me and what he wanted to know was: what lies beyond the happening of my stories? He is convinced there is something there.
There is, but at the same time he is asking about something that lies beyond my visual reach. I know what he is talking about, I recognize it, but I can't see it. I can't reach out, grab it, pull it towards me and look at it.
'Don't you think there is a way to make it more personal?' he asked.
That is what he means.
Why do I write? To have stories happen or to load stories with something that hits the reader in the chest? My publisher is saying that I will never hit my readers in the chest as long as my stories just happen.
And it isn't a trick, a specific writing technique that I can learn, pick up or copy from someone else. 'Why do you write?' It is such a simple question. And the answer is simple, but it is not an easy one. Stories don't just happen. They always have an impact on the things that people believe and hold dear. If I don't talk about that impact then I will remain stuck in the happening.
'And I am sure you will write it well', my publisher said. 'I am sure it will be a really good story, but you have to bring it home. And home is where we feel what you write.'
Thank you very much.
The title I have in mind for my next book is strangely fitting. I am not going to say what it is just yet, but it has everything to do with the borders we set for ourselves and the borders that keep us where we are.

Gezondheid

2006-05-07T07:59:00.000-01:00

Het schrijven gaat traag de laatste tijd. Alles gaat traag de laatste tijd. Sinds begin april - dat is alweer een maand - slokt mijn gezondheid een deel van mijn aandacht op. Dat gaat ongemerkt. Ongewild, zelfs. Lichamelijk voel ik me precies hetzelfde als ik me al jaren voel, maar door de uitslag van een biopsie weet ik nu iets wat ik daarvoor niet wist, dat ik prostaatkanker heb.
Toen ik het hoorde van de arts, wist ik het eigenlijk al. Het was geen verrassing. Ik hoopte natuurlijk dat het niet zo zou zijn, maar die kans werd steeds kleiner. Eigenlijk waren de mogelijkheden wel zo'n beetje uitgeput.
Maar goed, nu weet ik het dus en bereid ik me voor op de behandeling die gaat volgen. Opereren, waarschijnlijk, als alle verdere controles goed uitpakken. En dan na de operatie herstellen en opnieuw leren plassen. Dat soort dingen. Mijn zomer begint een heel andere vormen aan te nemen dan ik begin dit jaar had gedacht. Dat is niet erg. Ik doe wat er komt en in de tussentijd probeer ik nog een beetje te doen wat ik wil.

Leven zonder management

2006-05-07T07:41:00.000-01:00

Langzaamaan begint de samenleving genoeg te krijgen van managers. Na de aanvankelijke algemene verbazing over het gemak waarmee deze nieuwe soort mensen zich in het bestaande milieu vestigde, schijnbaar zonder de verhoudingen ernstig te verstoren, is de soort uitgegroeid tot een plaag.
Nu pas blijkt dat manament zich in leven te houdt door te parasiteren op andere soorten, andere vakken. Management holt die andere vakken uit, waardoor de prestaties in dat vak na verloop van tijd gaan tegenvallen. De remedie van management is dat vak nog verder dan te overstelpen met managementinstrumenten, regels en procedures, waardoor de vakinhoudelijke prestaties noodgedwongen nog verder zullen dalen. Daarop volgen nieuwe ingrepen, die weer resulteren in verdere daling. Enzovoort.
Het doorbreken van de negatieve spiraal wordt steeds moeilijker, omdat er steeds meer managers komen die allemaal datgene wat ze hebben geleerd in praktijk willen brengen. Het is niet eens tegen beter weten in; de managementbeweging heeft zoveel momentum dat hij niet meer te keren is. Alle managers geloven heilig in management. Dat is niet zo verwonderlijk. Een manager kan zich het leven zonder management niet eens voorstellen. Toch zou dat juist een van de belangrijkste opdrachten van een manager moeten zijn. De salarissen van topmensen in het bedrijfsleven mogen van mij best verdubbelen, als daar tegenover een evenredige afname van het aantal managers staat. Dan maken zij hun primaire opdracht waar en daarvoor mogen ze worden beloond.

Dove Unie

2006-04-07T12:53:00.000-01:00

De EU luistert niet. Nu is besloten dat de unie druk zal uitoefenen op lidstaten die de liberalisering van de energiemarkt tegenwerken. Aan de overwegingen van een land om de eigen energievoorziening misschien toch liever in eigen hand te houden (en wie weet zelfs in overheids-hand) heeft de EU geen boodschap.
De afwijzing van de grondwet was kennelijk ook aan dovemansoren gericht. Het liberaliseringsfundamentalisme wordt de EU-burgers van bovenaf door de strot geramd, aangemoedigd door de Nederlanders Balkenende, Zalm en Brinkhorst, die het liefst alles zouden verkopen aan de markt en dan nog het allerliefst aan buitenlanders met zoveel mogelijk geld. Onze regering is cash-driven. Jammer dat niemand het liberaliseringstrio van ons wil overnemen t.e.a.b. (hoeft niet veel te zijn).
Ik hoop dat Meneer Verdonk lijsttrekker van de VVD wordt, dan is het tenminste duidelijk wat we van de partij mogen verwachten. Ik weet alleen niet of Mevrouw Bos hem aankan.

Wisselend succes

2006-03-14T06:52:00.000-01:00

Première van Succes in Hoofddorp was uitstekend, maar het stuk wordt wisselend ontvangen. De Telegraaf vond er geen klap aan (mager, platvloers, mislukt). De Volkskrant vond het prima (stevig vormgegeven, onderste uit de kan, acteurs laten zien wat ze kunnen). NRC zat er tussenin (puntige dialogen, lichtvoetig). De vorm die Peter heeft gevonden, het toneelstuk als bokswedstrijd, wordt in ieder geval door twee van de drie recensenten geprezen. En terecht (vind ik), want het stuk zit strak in zijn vel en mede daardoor kunnen Rick en Isa doen wat ze doen.
Two out of three ain't bad, zegt men.
Twee van de drie, daar doe ik het voor, zegt Rick ergens in het stuk.
Daar houd ik het op.