By Kaat de Kock

As young teenagers, my sister and I devoured Bouquet series novels. You know, the love novels that you could buy for little money at the newspaper store and for no money at the flea market. Why did we enjoy reading them so much? No idea. I think it was a combination of how little effort you had to make and the (in retrospect totally unrealistic) graphic sex scenes, something I didn't find in the children's books in the library, of course, and feel-good novels, they didn't exist back then (yes, I'm that old now).

'You know what, write a novel like that, I can do that too,' I said to my sister one day when I was about 20 years old.

'Yeah right, prove it,' she said smiling.

Fourteen days later, I laid a mountain of paper in front of her, typed in full on my electric typewriter (yes, so old). Another few days later, she had to admit that I was right. I had written a full-fledged love novel.

And bewilderingly, that was the end of it. I had done a nice trick, but didn't realize that it was quite a skill, to be able to write something like that and even then in a short time. After all, it was "only" a cheap little novel.

Real writers

You should know, I studied Germanic Language and Literature, a logical choice given my love of reading and writing, but also a direction in which you quickly feel intimidated. After all, you had to read the very best writers or you were superficial. Some fellow students wrote complicated essays or already had their first publishing contract. I also loved the classics, was a huge fan of Louis Paul Boon, enjoyed classes and reading and analyzing thick volumes, but still... once in a while you want to read something fun and light on, say, the beach or a drizzly summer day, right?

And that's how I discovered Marian Keyes, Wendy Holden, Jenny Colgan. Delightful feel-good writers who could make me forget everything around me for a few hours and books that I really couldn't put down. A gift I was particularly envious of, because what could be better than making other people happy?

Yes, there is a book in me

So if you had asked me ten years ago if there was a book in me, I would have said no very confidently. My ex-students were still producing wonderful literary work, but I couldn't do that. I could write, sure, but I didn't have a big, important story to be told. Writing books, that was for other people, smarter people. And wouldn't people look down on me if I wrote feelgood?

I am still so glad that one day I was almost forced to write. Out of boredom. Because I had to sit for a long time during my daughter's drawing class with only my laptop with me. One day I started typing and never stopped. And now that I notice how my books make many people happy, how I enjoy them myself, how young people email me to say that they don't like to read but do enjoy my books, I can beat myself up about it because I let myself be held back for so long by... Well, actually just by myself and my insecurities. Because of course no one looks down on me. People just admire the fact that I just do it. Because no genre is easy. On the contrary.

And when someone posts a picture on Instagram, of my book with a cocktail in the sun, I feel a little Jenny Colgan for a moment. Because I made someone happy.