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It was a quiet, peaceful day. I sat by the window, watching the snow drift gently past the glass.
Yet it wasn’t the snow that held my thoughts — I was wondering how to escape the corner I had so cleverly painted myself into.

Let’s go back to where it all began. It was 2011, and I was in my second year at the Faculty of Media Production.
This was my second degree; the first I had completed in engineering.
My love for computers drove me forward, so I enrolled in Maribor.
For months I’d been hearing stories from older students about the “terrifying” professor, mag. Irena Bedrač.
When the time came to meet her, I braced myself for the worst — a booming voice, an imposing presence.

Instead, she began her lecture on organisation and the basics of media production, and within minutes she had my full attention.
Four hours passed without me even noticing. When the class ended, I waited until the others had left, then approached her to talk.
It went well — at least at first. But then I made a mistake. I told her I had written a novel.
It was a lie.

I had been a devoted reader of Harry Potter, and perhaps that world of magic and bravery made me say it.
The professor listened with genuine interest, asking question after question.
The more I invented, the more intrigued she became — until, finally, she said she would love to read my book.
I froze. I mumbled excuses, buying myself a few days, knowing that sooner or later, the truth would catch up with me.

That evening I sat again by the window, the snow still falling softly, my thoughts restless.
I knew I couldn’t risk losing the respect of someone who had already earned mine.
Then, without much thought, I stood up, sat at my computer, and began to write.
It was almost midnight when I typed the first words of my life as a writer:
“A gloomy winter day was turning into evening. It was five o’clock. Over a small mountain village, hidden deep among peaks so high that their tops could not be seen, a storm had begun to rage.’

It was the 23rd of December, just before Christmas.
That night, Spiritus Dei was born — my first novel.
Within a month it was finished, 241 pages that would define me for years to come.
The work was rough, my technique unpolished, my grammar uncertain,
but by June 2012 I handed the completed manuscript to mag. Irena Bedrač — the woman who, unknowingly, had become the godmother of my writing.

I completed my studies with distinction and was later awarded the title Student of the Decade.
Yet Professor Bedrač remained unaware that she had once been the victim of my harmless lie — and the reason I began to write.

Today, in 2025, I can say without hesitation that it was the right thing to do.
She has since become one of my dearest and most trusted friends.

Have you ever found yourself in a similar moment — when you had to live up to expectations of your own making?