Marcelius

My street, complete with spire and abandoned turret. Or actually, this is Grünersgate, where I walk most often, and where the entrance to the courtyard is. The street of my address, Marselisgate, is right around the corner. On an old sign on the opposite side of the block, it's spelled Marcelius, which I love. There's no character named Marcelius in my story, and that is a flaw that just might need fixing.

I've finished tightening the Norwegian version of chapters 1-6 to correspond to the English versions. I've not told you that there is an English version? Well, there is, at least where these chapters are concerned. More on that later, I suppose. Just please keep your fingers crossed!

(photo another cheeky theft from Line, whose skill is starting to dazzle. Want to see how lovely grey can be? Look here.)

UPDATE: Did I say dazzle? How about swoon!

Yawn!

And here I am again. Hope you weren't planning on blogging this, Line. I grabbed it without waiting because it was such an excellent illustration of the current mood in Marselis.

Poor Magnus is sick again. This time it's oodles of ooze, with some showy vomiting as a fancy side effect, and a fever. I'm beginning to suspect that there is germ juice instead of electricity in the sockets around here.

Anyway, this means yet another day with next to no writing and lots and lots of wiping. And of course, yet another night with next to no sleep. He's napping now, though, so I'm hurrying off to Sylver for a brief visit. Can't wait till you can come with!

Hello there. I'm grammar girl.

Looking at this photo, I realise three things:

1. I could use a haircut.

2. I could use a good night's sleep. No, make that fifteen. (You paying attention, robot fighter? No? Thought not.)

3. (And non-norwegian reader, please forgive me for this:) I need to decide whether to end my female nouns in -a or -en in the Norwegian version of my story. Ack. Just can't decide. Both feel natural to me, and I seem to veer from one to the other in the space of a paragraph. I'm torn between my spoken language and the need to make the writing feel timeless and a little solemn. This is a serious story, poignant and full of loss and heartache (and talking teddy bears). Of course it needs to be 'jenta' and 'hytta', anything else would make it sound contrite. But should it say 'sida' or 'siden'? 'Døra' or 'døren'? 'Gata' or 'gaten'? Can I even choose if 'jenta' is given? What do you use? Would anyone care? And why didn't I just make my mind up before I wrote 93 000 words?

Sigh. This is promising to be one incredibly annoying cleanup job.

The very nimble snow watchers

Every morning, Magnus and I trudge all the way up to Carl Berner, where Magnus's daycare is. Then I walk back home again. And in the afternoon, the same. That's about one and a half hour of walking every day.

Good thing the road there is full of treasures! On the corner outside our building, there's the smell of roasting coffee. Further on the air is thick with chocolate or sweet licorice from the factory across the street. We walk past little squares and busy coffee shops, through parks and past old wooden houses in apple tree gardens. Cats follow our steps knowingly. And halfway there, there's the treasure in the photo: A tiny birdhouse of latticed logs. Only I don't think birds live there. I think the owners are a family of very clever, very nimble mice, who moved in generations ago, and who poke their snouts out to sniff the autumn morning.

- Still no snow to come, they tell each other, but they're not worried. They know that when winter comes, they have a fireplace, and heaps of twigs, and many tins of pilfered gingersnaps, and a four poster bed to snooze in.

Small step for a mini-man

Whew. What a week. There's been a lot of... let's just call it viral activity. First our little patient zero (but that was before Stockholm), then me, then this weekend, spectacularly, my poor Pan.

There were also doctor's appointments, sleepless nights, grumpy cats and assorted nuisances.

Yet somehow, this moment managed to sneak in:



A few hours before this photo was taken, Magnus took his first few steps. He wobbled from the pouff to the chair, quite casually, and had no idea what all the ensuing palaver was about.