Lucas Morel

I never thought I’d be where I am now. Growing up in Brussels, Belgium, I spent hours in the library, losing myself in books while my friends played football in the streets. I loved stories more than anything. It was natural that I’d go on to study French literature. I had this grand plan—finish my studies, write my novel, become a writer.

But something changed. One day, staring at a blank page, waiting for words that didn’t come, I found myself sketching instead. At first, they were just small doodles, but soon it grew into something more. Oil paintings followed. It was like I had to paint, to release something inside me that words couldn’t touch. My studies fell by the wayside, and before I knew it, I had dropped out.

My parents were furious, of course. They’d always disapproved of my literature studies—too abstract, too unpractical. And now, painting? That was the final straw. They thought I was throwing my life away.

I scraped by, working odd jobs—bartender, delivery driver, anything that paid. But the frustration and exhaustion just made me paint more, especially at night. The darkness suited my mood. Sleep? I barely knew what that was.

Years passed, and I almost lost hope, until a gallery owner stumbled upon my work. They wanted to exhibit my paintings, and to my surprise, they sold. And not just a few—suddenly, people were bidding over my work, and I couldn’t paint fast enough. Exhibitions opened in cities I’d never even visited, and soon my paintings were fetching prices I hadn’t imagined.

That’s when my parents reached out again, suddenly interested in my “career.” It’s funny how money changes everything.

But the art world became suffocating. The rush to create on demand, the constant need for more, bigger, better—it drained me. So, I returned to writing. This time, I finished the book. And it’s a bestseller now.

I’m 38. And I’ve learned one thing: success comes when you’re ready, not when you chase it.