Lost in translation

I have started revisiting some previously written articles for a top-secret project, a.k.a. a book. As I read through them, I laughed, chuckled and admired how bold I was. My writing was honest and vulnerable. Fearless. I remember in those days after each argument Mr K would turn to me and request, “Please don’t blog about this”. It was my power. As I read along, I wondered, when did it all become so robotic and proper? Was it the ChatGPT edits, no it was way before open AI. I realised it was when I began to care. Care about what I say, care about my image and the perception, care about how others should view me. End result, functional and boring.

There’s been a new entry in my life, a young girl, Ms G, spirited, blunt and full of ideas. Everyday, she wants to start something new. I see so much of me in her spirit. She is forcing me to revisit myself. The other day she said, “you are quite cool”, who me? I was shocked. I have never been called “cool”. What’s next for me, “sexy”, oh come on! Now you are just toying with me.Some years ago, my editor had pointed this out to me, that my writing was losing its humour. I tried too hard to hold on but it slipped by me. I was chasing perfection, I realise now. Do I have the courage to be outrageous again… hmm… I think so. I am rediscovering and reconnecting with myself.

Bold, blunt, outrageous.

So, issuing this warning in public interest: Am back, get your act together, beware, if you act funny… I will blog about you!