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In the last couple of months, thanks to my situation of being unemployed and thanks to the early arrival of the Scandinavian autumn, I do what I've always dreamed of doing: the full time writer.
Daydreaming? A way to deceive myself? Or just doing something to keep myself busy?

I don’t know what the right answer can be, and right now I’m not interested in finding it. I only know that, at least for the moment, I consider myself a writer and the writing is my real job.
And so, after the few hours I spend looking for jobs and studying Swedish, I find myself to deal and “fight” with all the time I have available — which becomes difficult to handle if sitting in front of a blank paper — and with the swinging pace of my inspiration (eh, if one could control and drive it...) and, for the very first time, with the duty to write under fixed deadlines and only about specific topics as I’m asked to do.
And so the writing becomes more complicated and difficult than just write following the inspiration or the imagination.

But I write, for work and for my passion.

And I write, I write a lot, I write everywhere: on the computer, on notebooks, on a small piece of paper, on the phone. I write a lot and I never delete anything, no: I jump from one story to another, to a poem, to an article, to a thought. I forget what I was writing about, sometimes I get lost.
In a way I hide my writings to myself, I leave them somewhere knowing I will find them again, maybe months or years later, to re-read my thoughts as if I was looking at a photo album of my past.

Yes, because to us who consider writing as a necessity and an essential need, the writings become also our journal, a friend which follow us telling old and new stories.
And pieces of our lives. And so writing is a job, even if they tell you the opposite, even if one has to find a “real” job to survive.
But a least for some time, it’s good to keep dreaming.

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