Writing and Me.

If you're wondering whether I went to literature school or if I ever dreamed of being a writer, the answer is no.

All I remember is that I loved to read. I spent my time reading romance novels. Then my second brother suggested I read other genres to open my mind. He introduced me to science fiction (Pierre Bordage). After that, my third brother introduced me to novels about Egypt (Christian Jacq). Then I grew interested in books about music and spirituality.

I've always felt that life taught me through all that reading.

Then my friends started asking me if I’d ever considered writing a book. Most of them said I was good at telling stories—and that I told them with a lot of humor. I’d reply that being a good storyteller with a sense of humor wasn’t enough to write a book. I found all sorts of excuses not to write.

Then one day, my husband brought up writing a book. He was a translator. He missed writing. I have to admit, he wrote beautiful texts. I don’t know why, but that day, it felt like he was speaking directly to me. So I picked up the pen.

It was a game, just a game. I wanted to see what would come out. And I confess, I was the first one surprised. I didn’t think I knew how—or could—write. I loved what emerged.

That experience was the most beautiful of my life: euphoria, contentment, wonder, joy, happiness—all at once for nine months. I discovered I had a talent.

I think writing felt so good because I didn’t impose restrictions on myself, like "writing must be like this" or "a book has to be like that." I wanted something that felt like me—different, funny, and accessible.

I can’t really say why, but of everything I’d ever read, it was the author of Conversations with God who caught my eye. The idea of a dialogue book came to me. I wanted a book that felt alive

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