Why I read and write fiction

They say there are two types of writers: those who have been avid readers since age six, and those who break away from reading until their twenties. The first writes with the inspiration of hundreds of books, polished and refined. The second writes by using his own life as a forge, with a rough pen, and both types are lovely.

I belong to the second group.

My mother is such an avid reader that I do not know the colours of the walls of the Dutch house in which I grew up, because all of the paintwork rested behind two layers of books. Her father too, with whom I had a good connection, was a keen reader, so that all houses I frequented in my youth contained more books than I thought I could ever read.

And still I absolutely hated reading while growing up. While I was free to read, I didn’t, and when I had to, I deceived the teachers who examined me, with bluffing, internet summaries, and some worldly wisdom. Usually they saw through me at the exam, usually they were soft-hearted, urging on me to finally start reading, which I promised but never did.

I just thought it was so boring. It was only around my leaving certs, thanks to the right teacher at the right moment, that I was gripped by the magic of living someone else’s life, because that is what novels do for me.

The books which move me the most, that make me gasp for air, so that whoever shares the living room, the park bench, the train carriage with me, looks up, those are the books that tell of other people’s lives with so much sensory detail, that I forget myself, that I live their life as though it were my own, that I feel the wind their pen describes against the skin of my mind, that I feel their pain in my own chest, their grief when losing their friends, their self-confidence, their naïveté.

Part of the magic of reading stems from recognising yourself in the other, like in a mirror. You read a story about yourself, more than about the other, who is only the carrier of that part of yourself.

A different part of the magic stems from the recognition of the other in yourself, from similarity, connection, the universal character of our individual existence. ‘I wrestle with that too,’ you want to say, ‘you are not alone, dear character.’ That aspect is the listening to someone else’s words, ‘how sad for you,’ you say, ‘thank you,’ says the character.

But there is a third aspect to the magic: the living of an unlived life, the exploring of an unfamiliar soul, the experiencing of what you never knew, where you never roamed, like you enjoy travelling to where you never were, to see how people live in that particular place, how the forests grow yellow, how the food tastes, the language sounds.

And if you were there in autumn, then you return in spring, to see the cherry blossoms swirl in the wind, to see how time changes the character of street life. You can penetrate deeper into the essence of a city, just like you dig deeper into the nature of your lover by asking more, listening deeper, and with every word you know that cherished person better.

And that aspect of reading and writing is what is truly magical to me: the living of an unfamiliar life, not a variation to your own life, but an unknown life, and if the writer tells the story with plenty of sensory detail instead of dry facts, such a story can unhinge my heart and mind.

And so I read Out Stealing Horses, a Norwegian book about (spoiler) a boy who loses touch with his father, not by death, like I did, but because the father finds a new family and leaves behind the old one. ‘So life can be worse than being a half-orphan,’ I thought while reading about that unlived life.

And so I read A Little Life, an American book about (spoiler) a boy whose trust in the people on whom he depends is so deeply damaged, that later in life he desires to be independent from everybody. ‘How lucky I am,’ I thought, ‘that my parents desired my birth and love me.’

And so I read The Frozen Heart, a Spanish book, partially about (spoiler) people whose political opinions are irreconcilable with those of their family, so that they must live in different rooms, different countries, different worlds. These days that is a commonplace experience, but back when I read that book, I merely thought: ‘How lucky I am that I can freely express myself, without fearing brutalisation, repudiation, contempt by those I hold dear.’

To read about their lives enriched my own life, and after a few years, I wanted to try for myself: inventing a person, inventing a world, inventing a life, not a version of my own life, but rather a new life, endured neither by me nor by a reader.

I just started somewhere, with a house in the woods, a family living in it, an intrigue disrupting their life. I spent night after night in their company, thinking up sentences, images, scenes, extending them, overwriting them with new ones, and thus I continued for years and years, so that the story I started on six years ago no longer exists, although the characters bear the same names, as though the story were a ship that crossed the ocean while every board, every nut, every strip of cotton had been replaced along the way, so that the ship was the same and yet a completely new ship.

In the end I finished the book. To finish doesn’t mean I would no longer change any words, on the contrary, I have finished my book three times so far. To finish means that the book was ready enough to withstand the eyes of a stranger. The first time those of a beloved first reader, the second time those of publishers (who didn’t bite yet), the third time they are yours, dear reader, on this website.

Three Sorrows is a psychological novel, about emotional pain, about how your life is enriched or malnourished if you bury a loss or rather shoulder it. This theme has my lifelong interest, after my father died in front of my young eyes. And so even exploring an unlived life touches upon your own history.

I am convinced that this manuscript will find its way to a publisher who sees its beauty and potential. In the time that may come I will write books about what resonates with me in life: unlived lives, narrated with lots of sensory detail and passion, but also interesting people in our public life, powerful moments in our shared history, social issues, powerful episodes from our individual lives showing us how to live, and travel stories.

In addition to Three Sorrows, I am working on three other books: one novel, one fragment of my family history, one bundle of travel stories.

If you are a publisher or agent, please get in touch. I would love to meet you for a good conversation over coffee or the telephone, and can share the full manuscript and synopsis of Three Sorrows with you.

If you are a reader, please write to me just the same. It would be an absolute pleasure to hear what thoughts and feelings my writing evoked in you. I will answer every email.

And if you liked my writing, feel free to send this website to whoever should see it. It may seem a simple act, just sharing a link, but to this new kid on the block it means a lot. Thank you!