Om jag bara skulle skriva, vad skulle det då bli? Vet jag nog, the same as always, me getting old and lonesome, with no partner to play with, okej with money, but…

Age is not very fun. Sometimes I enjoy being on my own, with no responsibilities for anyone but myself – especially as I spend the winters out of Sweden nowdays. And will continue to do so as long as I and my money lasts. Snow is no longer something I want to shuffle, wade through, slip on, drive a car in.

Lately I have been thinking of writing in English in my blog – would that attract more readers or would it just repel my Swedish blogfriends and followers? I will never know if I do not test it.

Those who have been reading my texts during the years – it seems the blog started december 2008, and now has some 90 followers, not all very active – will recognize my themes. Me and my world, me in agony and in joy (yes, at times), me struggling with the gambling addiction and at last getting free from gambling. Me (and my family) losing Mats, our middle son, in an accident. Ulf losing his life in a heart attack, and me losing him, again. The first time was when he and I separated due to my gambling. Me going back to live with my ex-husband when he was ailing from a dementia that took over his life, and left me living but very tired… And him dying four years ago (tomorrow is his birthday, he would be 89 years), thus setting me free.

Free to live as I choose, with decisions right and wrong, and consequences most often only mine. Some good, some less good.

Another frequent theme is my wanting to write – yes, there is the one book published, Free Spin, in 2019. It is all about the gambling. And I do not want that to be who I am. And then I have been writing about Jan and me, his dementia and our coping/not coping with it. Not published, probably will never be. Might have done me good to write it, though. My sons may read it some day.

Wanting to write, but not writing anything else than the blog texts. Not every day, but quite often. There is a lot of them – statistics say 3 073 per today. Some of them have energy, I can tell when it is there. And also when it is not, quite often.

So, does it take sadness, trouble that is overwhelming, no joy – for me to write something that is filled with this energy? I know when I read a book that is ”good” – the language, the feelings, characters, energy is there. Does writers find this outside of their own lives? I don´t seem to be able to do that, to write that. There is always me in some way, at times very visible, other times more obscure.

And why would that be interesting to anyone?