[Writing in Motion #2] The last letter written from Bali
This is my farewell letter to the island where I’ve lived for the past 11 months.
Yes, it is time do leave. Next week I will catch a long flight that will take me to Portugal — via Singapore, Qatar and Madrid.
Quer ler em português?
These past 11 months have been filled with transformative experiences. I’ve already written about some of them here in the last months.
But today, I want to talk about what I consider the plot twist in this story: joining the Writers' Club at Green School, where my children studied.
This letter — the last one written on the island, but certainly not the last one about Bali — is a farewell to this very special group that became such an important part of my journey.
The importance of putting yourself out there
I still remember it like it was yesterday — my very first time in a group like that.
I arrived fifteen minutes past noon. People were getting up, some had already left. I asked, shyly:
— Is this the Writers’ Club?
Chris, the group’s facilitator, looked surprised:
— What? You’re just arriving now? The meeting started at 10:30!
I apologized. I hadn’t quite understood that it was happening that day, at that time. Chris just smiled and reassured me. It was fine — I could start the following week. He wouldn’t be there, though. He was heading off on a trip around Brazil — funny coincidence, right? — but another school dad, Michael, would be facilitating the group. I just had to show up at 10:30 — preferably.
He explained the rules, we said goodbye. See you next week? (Would I actually come back?)
The delay wasn’t intentional. But looking back, I have to be honest: how much of that delay was really just a mistake? Could it have been my instinct for self-preservation — which often blurs into self-sabotage — trying to keep me away from that whole thing?
It was early August, and I had just arrived in Bali. Lost — professionally speaking. Decades devoted to journalism seemed to have come to an end, and the future loomed as one giant question mark.
What was I doing in Bali? What was I going to do with my life? What was I doing in a writers' group if I had never even been able to define myself as one?
Yeah, there was that too. Every time someone asked what I did, the answer came quickly:
— I’m a journalist and a wri… (imagine my voice fading out at the end of that sentence).
I had already published my first book.
The other day, I started reading it before sending the PDF in for a writer-in-residence fellowship application. Can I be honest? It’s a damn good book — no false modesty here. It didn’t win the Amazon Prize for Reportage and get published by Record, one of Brazil’s biggest publishing houses, for nothing.
But what you just read on the paragraph above — I had never admitted that to myself. I hadn’t even read my own book after it was published!
I’ve always been shy. To the point of self-sabotage — which sometimes masquerades as self-protection — even when it comes to the thing I do best.
The other writers in the group — all fellow parents from the school — took a while to tell me, but in those first few weeks, no one could actually hear me during our meetings. Only after about a month did Penny muster the courage to say it out loud:
— Sorry, I can’t hear you.
That was the first domino to fall. After her, everyone in the circle agreed — even the two people sitting right next to me.
Was it just shyness, supercharged by my fear of messing up in broken English, that made me speak in an inaudible voice? Or was I literally losing my voice in the midst of that professional identity crisis?
The meetings went on. Everyone had their own struggles — fears, insecurities, shyness, procrastination. Not everyone came every week, but each session brought new people, new stories, new challenges.
In a way, that group started to chip away at some of my limiting beliefs.
It was like the Balinese version of Shakespeare and Company bookshop in 1920s Paris: writers who were lost, unsure of where to go, but all together, all supporting one another.
And of the many lessons I learned in those early days, the plot twist came from a line Michael repeated almost every week:
— You wrote something? Then you’ve got to put it out into the world.
Because if you keep it to yourself, no one will ever know you’re a writer, no one will ever get the chance to love your work.
Thanks to that encouragement, DESNORTEANDO was born.
I decided to put it out into the world. The fears, the anguish, the doubts. The midlife crisis that made me feel professionally useless, defeated, done. Too young to retire, to old to start from scratch, but still with two kids to raise.
My internal compass? Completely lost. Me? Totally adrift.
And so this always-timid guy, obsessed with appearances and the reputation built over years in journalism, began to open his heart on Substack — with posts on LinkedIn, Facebook, and Instagram.
Yes, the ships were burning. There was no turning back.
When you hit rock bottom in the Ocean, there’s only one way out: back to the surface.
It was the writers at the Club who reached out and pulled me up. Even if they didn’t know they were doing it. Every time someone offered advice, or shared a personal story, or voiced a doubt — giving me the chance to contribute and help that person move forward with their writing project.
Because, yes, it soon became clear: my 35 years of writing experience had real value.
Little by little, my heart settled, my thoughts cleared. I let go of the shame and found the courage to share the spy novel I had written after my first book — a manuscript that had never seen the light of day.
I owned up to my weaknesses and faced them with a plan: a Master’s in Creative Writing in Coimbra, starting this September.
Who had decided that I was too old to start over? No one but myself, the self-saboteur.
That huge question mark hanging over my future? Slowly faded away. The Club gave me the courage to say out loud: I am a writer.
The Ferdinando who had arrived shy, late, and speaking softly did not attend the final meeting of the Green School Writers' Club on June 18, 2025. I went in his place to take part in our farewell.
This letter is my way of thanking the people who held my hand through a year that had every sign of being the worst — but will go down as one of the most remarkable of my journey on this planet.
Thank you, Anke, Antonia, Ashley, Audrey, Chiori, Chris, Elora, Indah, Kay, Krishna, Mahnaz, María, Michael, Ozgie, Penny, Saritha, Sibyl, Siobhan, Ugie, and all the other writers who showed up at some point and shared their stories, thoughts and feelings with us.
A Writers’ Club at Substack?
I also can’t end this without thanking everyone who has supported me here on Substack — reading, liking, commenting on, and sharing the DESNORTEANDO letters.
More than just a thank-you, I want to offer new writers the same kind of support I received in Bali. That’s why, starting in August, I’ll be launching a pilot of what I’m calling the Regenerative Writing Group.
This first experience will be free of charge. All you need to do is be subscribed to the free plan of DESNORTEANDO.
This first group will be only for those who write in Portuguese. Sorry for now, my English readers. Maybe in the future? Would you be interested?
Can't wait to see what you do with your creative writing course. And for now, excited to read about your adventures in Portugal.
Onwards and upwards!!
Very inspirational to read this and see how you channeled your gifts and talents and found your voice. Thank you Ferdi for everything—look forward to following your work for many years to come. Pinky’s up 😂✊