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Anneliese Rohrer didn’t mean to start a revolution. She was just trying to cope with the flood of emails that had swamped her inbox.  

But we’d better go back a step. It all began with a radio interview…. No, maybe even further back:

Satellites posing as falling stars linger in the night sky as headlights, rushing to fade into oblivion, illuminate the open spaces with a yellowish glow for tiny brief moments before leaving them with an even lamppost tan. Droplets from a first autumn rain tumble from rooftops to the ground, and the air is damp. Fresh leaves on the trees neatly planted all down the line by human hands, begin to display little signs of life, making it evident that winter has moved on.

A door slams shut behind me with a loud thud, and I find myself on the street, feeling the planet shifting.

Having grown up in an Austrian family where traditions are cherished, it is the magical playing out of the ritual of Christmas that still makes up my fondest childhood memories.

Every year on Dec. 23, my younger brother and I would go to my grandparents’ house – so that the Christkind (we do not, I emphasize, we do NOT believe in the Weihnachtsmann here in Austria) could decorate the Christmas tree that my uncle had chopped down in the forest of his farm in the weeks of Advent.

Clouds have finally rolled in from the mountains, glazing the city in a thick fog as the days grow short, and it seems that with every passing minute winter winds lurch closer.

It’s a Tuesday, and I am exactly where I’m supposed to be – standing by a printer developing a fluorescent tan as warm, freshly-printed paper falls into the palm of my hand. My eyes are blank, straying through the window towards a horizon ignited by a crimson sun and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to remember the sound of my own voice.

Walking back to my cubicle, I look around – faces as expressionless as death masks bask in the glow of flat screen monitors to a soundtrack of frantically rattling keys.

Dear Diary,

Every year, Velden in the South of Austria hosts an event called Fete Blanche where young and old get together and dress in white, drink wine and simply have fun. At this time of the year, the Viennese drive down to enjoy the refreshing water of the Wörthersee and an exciting clubbing experience in white. And so did my friends and I.

Dear Diary,

A culture is like a steamer trunk filled with treasure – with beliefs, moral values, with dilemmas and anxieties, traditions and symbolism. It is the way of perceiving all these in a way particularly unique to the place of origin of the society. Still, it seems none is perfect, at least not to me. I have visited various places, from Australia to the far America… and whenever I encounter something new and strange, I try to keep it all in perspective.

Dear Diary,

Lack of inspiration is the most terrifying thing a writer can experience in life. It is as if the devil himself has taken away all feelings, thoughts and imagination. The struggle against emptiness becomes a fight with the self. To win, one attempts to bring back brilliant ideas by reading slogans on advertisements, notes on discarded bus tickets and quotes on random business cards.

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary,

For an hour, we stood wedged inside the Polish Church on the Rennweg. The rotunda of the church was packed; people stood shoulder to shoulder listening to the priest, offering words of comfort during this time of mourning.