Gothenburg. Sixty-two. Phew.

Thank you, dear friends, for all the kind birthday wishes – they truly warm my heart.

When I opened my eyes this morning, the first song on my playlist was the Beatles’ “Help,” with John and Paul harmonizing perfectly: “When I was younger, so much younger than today…”

A few minutes later, Charlotte and Elle laid out a lovely spread of gifts, popped open a chilled bottle of champagne, and served a big bowl of juicy strawberries.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about birthdays. Sure, they’re fun – but it’s a bit odd to be celebrated for something I had absolutely nothing to do with. Sixty-two years and roughly nine months ago, my parents were in the middle of a sweaty session of lovemaking. My dad clearly had good aim, and one of my mom’s fertile eggs got fertilized. From there, a whole lot of cell division kicked off, and eventually a fetal version of me started taking shape – a process that, frankly, took up most of my time for the next several months.

Maybe it just makes perfect sense to celebrate someone who’s managed to stay alive for sixty-two years. Especially these days.

It hit me recently that I’m only nine years younger than the new pope. Two older men – yet we couldn’t be further apart in what we believe about life.
Because I still firmly believe in life before death. Maybe the sixth decade is a slow-moving prep course for the seventh – kind of like when I turned 30 and started to get the feeling that, as fun as it had all been, it might be time to leave the nightclub scene behind and start taking my creativity more seriously.

So what is it I’m supposed to leave behind this time? Cheese doodles? Frothy mugs of beer? That brown firewater from Jim and Jack? Cactus juice?

At sixty-two, I’m old enough to realize that the sum total of all my guilty pleasures tends to remain more or less constant. Time to stop pretending otherwise. I also know that my aches and pains aren’t likely to decrease – and that it’s getting easier and easier to convince myself I actually deserve those guilty pleasures.

Or maybe it’s the illusion that my most creative years still lie ahead of me – is that what I should let go of? Maybe I just don’t want to admit that my time has passed – and that it’s only right to put the trophies on the shelf and let them slowly collect dust in the shadow of forgetfulness?

Well, quite frankly, I refuse.

I live to create, and I create to live. It’s the same reason I travel – because I haven’t yet found a better way to feel truly alive with all my senses switched on at once.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of my first book. Or rather – our first book. I would never have managed all that creativity and output without Charlotte’s inspiration, encouragement, proofreading, and invaluable input.

That first book sold 3,000 copies. The tenth sold 12,000 – mostly in China (Malmö City chose it as a gift during the World Expo in Shanghai).

Today, I’m up to 29 books – and I have no idea how many copies have sold. Mostly in Sweden, but surprisingly many abroad.

Half of our books have been commissioned. The rest? Pure passion projects, printed in small runs. Boutique books, you might say.

I’ve got one more book to write before I can dive headfirst into the seductive world of fiction. It’s a tell-all memoir in 25 chapters – full of adventures, analyses, and anecdotes written in blood, sweat, and tears.

I’m planning to have it finished in a couple of months – just in time for Elle’s 25th birthday.

In many ways, every book I’ve made so far has led me here – to this very moment: digging through my heart, scraping through the memory banks, jotting down events, experiences, and reflections from my beautifully chaotic life.

It’s the hardest and most inspiring project I’ve ever taken on.

Yes, it’s also therapeutic – writing a sort of autobiography. Naturally, the book is called “Before I Forget” – a nod to the fact that it’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to recall enough detail to describe the loosely connected chain of events and thoughts that make up my story.

By this time next year – when I, someone born in 1963, turn 63 – I hope to have released my first work of fiction.

Hmm. That might’ve sounded a bit too breezy – and maybe even a little too American in its overconfidence. It may not turn out to be all that fictional.

Writing fiction, I’ve learned, is anything but frictionless. Writing in general isn’t easy – and maybe it shouldn’t be, even if I usually manage to squeeze out words and sentences with relative ease in long, tightly written streams.

It’s the editing that takes time.

Just like in life. Living is fairly easy. It’s figuring out what to do with this rather short time on the planet that’s the challenge. And the older I get, the more urgent it feels to spend that time wisely.

Time flies, and the clock keeps on ticking, as my father-in-law Allan likes to say from time to time. He’s 87 – so he should know.

So yeah. It’s time to keep going.