I was meant to become the best football player in the world. My knee formed a cartilage problem. I was meant to become the best guitarist in the world. I could not tune the guitar. On this basis I went to study literature and philosophy in Helsinki. Soon it became evident that this combination of subjects would qualify you to be a researcher or a housewife. I went to the Sanoma School of Journalism.

I often felt like an idiot at the University of Helsinki. I was preparing my first collection of poetry in the winter of 1980. A poet is meant to be a bohemian. I did not need a wallet. That was middle class.

I have no dreams. I have plans. Dreaming is a sure way to leave your plans unrealised. It would sound insane if a writer said they were dreaming of writing a good book. Why are they dreaming? Why aren’t they writing? Working?