Below some observations of a new-born author - in no order, actually.

FYI: I am busy writing my second German novel; a European detective story. And maybe some texts for customers who like the work and words of a good text. Without AI.

Have a look if nonetheless interested.

Either way - happiness comes from within. And in my case, it raises again since I resigned, and with full speed head over heels as of mid-March.

Why? Cause then I will have time to write again. Energy to make that time. And headspace to use that time and turn words around and into something that matters. To you maybe, to myself for sure.

How I raised my eyebrows when my better half spoke about headspace back then. “I don’t have the mental capacity.” I almost blamed him for just not wanting to think after a long day of work about the piping solutions for the summerhouse, the water bill calculations, or the choice of music classes for the kids. “Whatever makes sense.”

What seemed like indifference turned out to be indeed mental exhaustion. Or, a little less dramatic, the need to rest the mind after being squeezed and preoccupied all day long.

In his case (a steep career), the squeezed brain cells have to tackle the most pressing questions of steering global as well as 20+ national regulatory affairs into the direction of transparency, impact, sustainability, success. With considerations of media comms, headcount, consultancy playoffs or whathaveyounot sprinkled between 10-15 calls a day. Across the globe and time zones, in the middle of mergers, wars, inflation. Water pipe who?

In my case (a rollercoaster), the 2022 preoccupations consisted in repetitive videocalls, sales pitches, migration tragedies - and steep KPIs. People and passion mattered, but numbers mattered too. Over 1000 GoogleMeets held and 150+ contracts signed. “What’s the daily target, the weekly, the monthly?” Q1 versus Q2, the struggle of balancing quality and quantity. Opening the same box again, over and over: “Will he or she make it? Who is in, who is out?” Decisions must be made, fast and plentiful, to convince and onboard people who usually have nothing to loose but a lot to win. Ideally the best, those who are closest to the finishing line anyways. The feeling of a virtual handshake that suddenly vanishes through withdrawal, rejection, omission.

Headspace? Barely. When I went for a much-needed jog, I revived the calls, the chats, the DMs. “Will you send your task?” “Can you get back to me?” “Do you have any additional questions?” When I went to bed, I laid awake. “Should I have given her the chance?” “Was I too critical?” “Was I naive? Too direct? Too transparent?”

Now, with the decision to quit and to focus on what I love, my jogs turn into inspiration meditation again. With every breath comes a thought about a scene of a character I want to describe, a feeling I seek to convey. My headspace is filled with stories again, not with worries. I see personalities that I haunt until I give them life on paper, in contrast to people and their stories who haunt me.

Don’t get me wrong: amongst the 1000 encounters were many positive ones, most of them in fact were touching on some level. Many candidates I chose stood out as unforgettable, and the proof of impacting the careers of 100+ people is heartwarming and fulfilling. But it’s also draining.

Was my headspace full or empty?
Maybe a matter of perspective.

However I look at it now, I can’t wait to fill it - or alternatively empty it - with what is a very luxury decision: being an author. Full time. Full stop.

Soon more.

Does sunshine make everything better? The answer is yes and no - depending on the context.

When you have booked the long overdue week off and the weather forecast shows the round yellow symbol, the likelihood of sunshine makes you smile. (To my mind comes the concrete image of solid 32+ degrees indications two years back. Luxury you cannot buy in form of datapoints shown on the mobile phones we held in our trembling hands up on the 17th floor in Bangkok, being temporarily quarantined and hoping for all four Covid tests to be negative, to avoid being sent back to -5 degrees without even having tipped one toe into a white sandy Thai beach.) Because the anticipation of sunshine makes all expectations sweeter.

When you then open the curtains of your holiday home and a crystal clear blue sky is greeting you just as forecasted, it makes your day or week(s). (To my mind comes the concrete image of our recent Easter Monday daytrip that turned into a spontaneous celebration of spring vibes. A long walk without complaints but family harmony instead on the green hills above Vienna, with jolly kids skipping over the grass and golden sunrays caressing the wooden benches resting for our convenience between the vineyards. After four days of chills and rain, it felt like we were catapulted to a different season, where chats were lighter and smiles came easier, where our legs and minds had more energy.) Because when sunshine matches our happiness inside out, it magnifies all senses.

Just when the sunrays shine upon horror, the answer to the question is no. Sunshine makes not everything better. In fact, it may render pain more gruesome, because there is a mismatch. The picture we have of sunshine being a natural sweetener of life does not go along with a setting that screams violence, loss, injustice - or death. (To my mind comes the concrete image of a spring visit to the Auschwitz concentration camp museum in my teenage years. There were birds signing and the air was soft and warm, sunrays playing with the shadows of the narrow brick buildings, and if one

hadn't known it better, the chimney could have been a romantic detail in the sunny picture - but the Nazis were not baking bread in that oven. The revolting history of those buildings and the cruelty of nature being beautiful all around it was more than heart-breaking. This mismatch sticks until now.) Because when sunshine stands in a contrast to its surrounding, it underlines how gruesome it can be.

Sun-bathed genocide is obviously an extreme example. But think about it: there are many other situations that, once tainted in dancing sunrays, magnify someone’s subjective suffering. Or the suffering of a certain group of individuals; the vulnerable, unprotected, forgotten ones.

And surely, also the sun itself can be cruelsome, merciless. Sunshine is only a treat if you know you can escape the heat if need be. If you can find shade and water. Prime example besides the repetitive, disheartening news of draughts and (manmade) famine is Albert Camus’ first book, ”The stranger” (1942) - an absolutely mind-blowing description of how the sun affects behaviour and blends thoughts to the point of making the human mind snap. Melt, basically. Another great tribute to the dominance of sun over us humans is a movie called ”The boy who harnessed the wind” (2019). It shows that the heat of the sun can destroy futures and lifes. That we have to re-think the status quo and what we used to do, again and again, no matter now helpless or small we may feel. Yes, this movie is a concrete image that gives hope to overcome the downsides of sunshine, if only we use our brains and trust another a little more (and exploit another a little much less).

So yeah - whether sunshine makes everything better depends much on the context after all.

This being said: let’s cherish and celebrate the sun, yet treat it with respect, wisdom, and a little bit of reservation. You never know whether it will kill you one day. From the outside, or from the inside.

Just like AI.

I have never been great at winning. Personally and oddly enough, I stay more comfortable with the silver medal - and the ”wood” ones, as we tend to label in our family the game losers, highlighting the fact one can make a lot of stuff out of wood. Usefulness over appearance.

If someone tells me there is room for improvement in my performance, I cannot but agree. I will add details and insights, lowering myself more than needed. If someone tells me I did very well, I tend to downplay - out of false impulse or misunderstood courtesy.

Not to say this is a healthier or better way to handle hopes and expectations; ”aiming low” can’t possibly be a great piece of advice. (I shall be careful questioning and reviewing what kind of role model I am - latest when the kids hit an age when they need guidance that is more facetted than ”watch left-right-left” or ”say ’hello’ when you enter and ’goodbye’ when you leave”.) Just saying it comes natural to me to not expect a great outcome, committed to walk the path more than to pass the goal itself. #authorlife

And fair enough: it’s a solid protection mechanism. One can’t lose much if one doesn’t expect to win. And if ever one hits a top result by coincidence, the surprise is sweet and the win an unexpected treat - rather than a somewhat egocentric feeling of deserved entitlement. (Learning to be self-confident enough to embrace a compliment happens somewhere down the line, in between, I guess.)

Maybe my odd relationship with winning goes hand in hand with the fact that I was never a good or happy cheater either. Though I often wrote in high school tiny notes with key dates and keywords onto minuscule papers to slip into my pencil box, I rarely -dared to- look at them. And if ever I did, I had destroyed my joy over the result; with one simple gesture (moving the pens) and glimpsing onto something I couldn’t recall on my own. The good grade didn’t feel real after cheating the system. Not deserved. No matter how much or little the illicit factcheck impacted the overall outcome - even small tweaks meant an entire f*ckup.

Nonetheless, whenever I knew that I or someone else deserved recognition or the honour of being named in connection with an achievement, I’d ask for it. (With much more ease on behalf of others. Another role value to review.) Not many gold medals so far in my case - but you know when you or someone else hit the sweet spot. When you or the person who nailed it deserve to be thanked. Nothing (or not much) that makes me angrier than someone disrespecting someone else's contributions. Or, even worse, praises themselves with the fruits of other people’s work.

In the setting of manoeuvring life’s turns, it’s often more than meeting a target or an preformulated expectation. It might be the satisfaction over a project that took multiple concerns into account - the completion of a lengthy process that implemented change for the better - or just the management of a hectic day with everyone happy and fed in bed once it is over.

In life, you can win without there being rules or a medal. And you may lose even though you gave your best - because your actions or words remain unseen, or undervalued, or taken over by someone else. (This person in return then has no hard feelings cheating the system - and others, for that matter. As said above: nothing glorious about that.)

In games or competitions, it’s usually different, for obvious reasons: you want to compare yourself and be compared. Ideally on the same grounds, with formal and transparent criteria. (Unlike in life’s rollercoaster, where someone who hasnt achieved the most might end up getting the loudest praise. Again, read above.) That is as long as the rules make sense, and represent the value that is at stake.

Fastest runner? Your time matters.

Strongest athlete? The kilograms matter.

Most suitable worldcup host? Most liked singer? Well. Here it seems to depend.

One might say the sum of facts matter. (When it’s about evaluating whether a nondemocratic country shall be allowed to bulldoze nature and populations for the profit of a few. For instance.) How then the facts are taken into account is another thing. #Fifa & co

One might also say that the overall opinion matters. (If most people asked share the same view, their majority represents the prevailing public opinion. For instance.) How then the majority opinion is taken into account is another thing. #ESC

There are many more examples, but you get my point.

To conclude my thoughts on winning, the (non-)strategy of ”aiming low” may indeed stay a shitty advice, for my daughters as much as at overall societal level. Yet tweaking our understanding of the concept of” finger-pointing” might be a good one: instead of pointing to others when we want to shame and blame, we could get into the habit of pointing to those who did better. To praise and compliment those who deserve better. To those who may not be named because on paper or per digital votes didn’t make the math add up to show gold.

Who knows - maybe one day, medal winners embrace my personal distorted attitude and step down from their first place. Point at the one who deserves the praise more, and say ”heh, thanks for the gold medal - I hope you don’t mind me handing it to the one who actually should wear it.”

This would not only bring back the true taste to the act of winning - but also show the willingness to embrace wood. Because a seeming winner who can praise others for the win has something much more valuable in hand: respect. It is not a coincidence that the story of a long distance runner who pushes his (stronger yet exhausted) opponent over the finishing line first went viral. (Or didn’t it? It should have: Iván Fernández Anaya, in 2012)*

So hence no loser anymore, but the hands free to do something useful. To show respect for instance.

Loreen, if you read this - think about how your first place tastes. And be brave to finger-point. For the good. To the better.

* http://www.fairplayinternational.org/honesty-of-the-long-distance-runner

P.S.: Maybe it's worthwhile considering the "look beyond the border of the own plate", as we tend to say in German. Looking at the overall picture. Now, one can say that songs about love are evergreens, and a tattoo is a nice thing to have. Yet whilst alcohol as (sustainable) solution to problems is not the way to go, dancing surely IS!

In fact, the added value of encouraging people to feel free and dance whatever song in whatever shape in whatever composition might be a little more what Europe and the world needs in times of raising extremisms and autocracies. Love, yes - but freedom to cha cha cha or the like even more so.

A woman my age passed recently away. Not a close friend, but an acquaintance - a lovely one. Also: the mother to a small child, a daughter, a partner. A close friend to many. And undoubtedly an inspiration to many more - already before the announcement of a deadly sickness in her body. Her, a life-embracing, full on smiling and all in exploring energy bundle - with a ticking time bomb in her head.

When she shared openly news and thoughts an social media, every single one a proof of her unbroken readiness to stand up for her own life, I felt like reaching out to her. Not only to applaud her incredible love to this world, and to wish her a speedy recovery - but to share with her a random detail. Namely what her small impact was on my own life, since 10ish years. Since one of a hand full girls’ group evenings back in the days; wine, chatter, silly jokes, big dreams, and good food. Once with leak - and that’s where her impact comes to the picture.

We had an absolutely random and small exchange about which parts of the long white-green vegetable was to be cooked, and which parts (if any) to be dismissed. Whilst I grew up with a mom that would cut the entire thing up in pieces and make us eat even the dry, almost wooden parts in deep green, her approach to leak was a traditional Belgian one: only the white juicy bits. And we laughed and both couldn’t believe the other’s approach to leak!

From that day on, whenever leak was on the meal plan, I struggled to strive a balance between white-only and all-in leak cutting - making me think of her energetic plea for only using the softest, juiciest part of the debated veggie. And smiled upon that memory.

So I told her that. That during the last ten years, I regularly heard her big laughter and saw her raised eyebrows in all leaky disbelief in front of me. That her input impacted me until now, and always will - that she will be on my mind in the future whenever I face the decision of how much green to keep.

So I sent from that day onwards pictures of leak whenever it was part of our food that day. I sent pics when she was better again (seemingly healed and proudly presenting a retrospectively coloured up mask that was beautifully designed to remind her and everyone around of the victory, of her joy to live), and I kept the pictures coming when she had updated the world that the ticking bomb was back. I felt that the leak would be proof of me, us, thinking of her. And her short replies, later on only emojis with hearts, showed me that she did appreciate that odd, simple gesture of sharing and reminiscing an old tiny memory. Maybe I also felt that the random leak pics would add to her stubborn strong will to overcome this pointless tumor, and add a tiny joy to all the joys she kept on celebrating until the end.

The end of her lovestory. My last leak to her remains unanswered and unseen; a leak held up in the sky, just minutes before a rainbow appeared between the clouds.

It must have been the sky preparing for a rarely precious, beautiful, thankful, caring and loving soul to join in for eternity.

And until the day I myself have to close the eyes for ever and turn my back to this beautiful, silly world, whenever I cut leak - her big warm smile and the struggle of how far to cut into the green will be there on my mind.

This is to the power of sharing what impression others leave on you, which impact they have on your world view and doings - be it big values or wisdoms, or just tiny, seemingly irrelevant pointers. A good shared memory always weighs in. And is what we should be pursuing in life: creating and sharing good experiences that turn into precious memories that stick. Small or big - heartspace matters.

My thoughts shift away from fiction to reality. Je suis en terrasse, again - or I try at least (not possible in Finland’s April it seems).

A child that shoots other children is not the storyline from a book. It’s the headline from the news. Yesterday’s news? For many it’s the present and the future.

The questions my own children ask hurt, a heavy mix of naivety and straightforwardness. ”What did the parents of the dead child say?” ”What did the teacher do?” ”Why did the child do it?” Whilst I sit at the kitchen table and try to formulate theoretical answers, experts will have to find truthful answers, meaningful support, practicable recommendations. Out there. Out there in the real world, where some kids grow up with access to weapons. Where violence is part of the spectrum of available options and not beyond imagination. A world where kids learn to suppress - their needs, their feelings, their very self. A world where the health and existence of others can be negated if need be.

Who teaches the lack of empathy? We can see where it ends - every day, around the world, around the clocl. But where does it start? Only with the experience of violence and injustice? Or already with unequal opportunities? With a mismatch of words and action? With seeds of hatred towards what's different? With people looking away from eyes and faces, hung up on flickering screens?

I barely know answers to the questions my children ask. All other questions keep their questionmarks. From my brain onto electronical paper. An easy relief. Too easy?

A snowy day that allows me to turn my attention back to fiction. Whilst out there, reality continues - in all its forms.