BOOKS

At what point is it ok for a young DJ, then singer, then founder of a design company, to then running around with a camera, to believe he could now become an author? Writing is reserved for wise old men with long white beards, mentoring travellers up in remote mountains, or those hiding in dark closets inventing infernos and decoding Da Vinci's secrets.

Not to mention writing in a foreign language. Now that's borderline ludicrous.

Well, learning a language has some difficulties, but also some advantages. You learn how things can be "the same word" with different meanings, and same meanings in different words. Learning English as a third (or fifth) language is a slippery business. It's not German, and it's not related to Spanish, Italian or French, and Australia doesn't speak like the US. Sayings still trip you up even after you've learned "the words." Three or five? I understand a good amount in five, am comfortable to speak eloquently in two, makes a three average, or simply a dangerous mixed bag of tricks.

Here's the gorgeous, beautiful thing: you learn to miscombobulate words, put them together in new ways, for fun. Searching becomes investigationing, until any Oxford literals run for the hills, to hide behind trees and bend into pretzels.

What started with only a clear understanding of the deeper meaning of a famous (and beloved) four letter word has become the language I dream in. The default. No translation required.

When writing in my mother tongue, after all the schoolings and eventually a degree hiding somewhere in a box in my mother's attic, my writing was quite "elite," if I may say so. That's in German. Not so in English, not even close. I sounded less like a scholar and more like a bogan who left school at nine years old. Or worse.

For twenty years, I was chasing the level I lost by moving downunder. The sophistication, the fine print, those short but important nuances that turn ordinary into fascinating, thought provoking, or simply amusing.

Twenty years of a daily routine to learn at least one new word properly. 5,300 words later, adding in the usual daily intake of coffee (gotta start there), radio, TV, movies, and yes, human communication, and slowly but surely I feel I'm back to where I started. Eloquent enough.

That's the first part of the story. The second part is that I write from experience. I'm not the most talented, most advanced, most innovative, or most intelligent, but I'm a damn good learner. I can set goals, take notes like a possessed man, and, while a world champion at the olympic sport of procrastination, I'm disciplined if something interests me.

So I write from the heart, about stuff I truly know about. Stuff that I learned, discovered, messed up, fixed, broke again, fixed better, super glued and made successful. I write because I teach and I teach because I love to see others succeed as much, perhaps even cut down their own learning curve. I'm proud of my 40+ years of figuring things out, without any mentors, teachers, or any extra wind in my sails. If I can be that breeze for others, wonderful.

And I write how I would like to read books. If they're not colorful, not full of life, not personal, not entertaining, they become food for the heater, to go up in flames to warm my old feet, while I lean back, to think about contemplating.