Writing happens.

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With this plastic thing I wrote four of my seven books.

But it wasn’t the thing that wrote them.

Nor were my fingers the source of all that frantic writing.

And it was also not my brain that was responsible for these creations.

I don’t know where books come from.

I don’t know what or who makes books, but they come alive and get written anyway, so one day I just started to type away and when I looked up five weeks later my first one was born.

It all comes alive, everything, just like that.

Just like the world we live in, the stories, our longing, despair, lovesickness and squirrels.

The thing that makes books (and squirrels) hardly ever gets credit for its contribution, and maybe that’s because we simply don’t know what it is, not really.

But it does what it does unconditionally, and it doesn’t mind that my name is on the covers.

The thing is as humble as humble can be, yet without it we wouldn’t exist.

One day, 51 years ago, I got created.

The guy who got away with being used as a writing vessel by the same power that made him in the first place.

Books come out of nowhere, just like anything else.

So with that in mind: show me writer’s block!

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