My question coming here was: If I take all the time to write, will I write?

I wrote five out of the ten stories, but that's just a number.

I write during my hike along the towering Serrat ridge on my way to the bakery; I am writing as I chat with Clara about conveying big themes through a little piece of mail art or a short story. My words are threaded through a cosy evening, preparing dinner with Steff and talking about the transition between river and land and how her materials transcend the same way, resulting in unexpected compositions of wood, clay and plants.

I am editing my piece of the Hortus Botanicus when discussing my character, Julia, with my fellow-writer Rodrigo. He has fallen in love with her and helps me determine where in South America she should be from, as I am trying to tie her to a water lily from the Amazon.

My stories take an unexpected leap when talking to Sophie about the flavour of my identity. They dive and swirl when former resident Marc reads them, points out their educational value, and reminds me of the word idiosyncrasy.

And let's not forget this blog! Another little surprise that has helped me settle, understand and structure my stay here while funnelling the rainbow of Canserrat into black and white words.