Lille Fnugg

The deal with the deal

2011-12-12T18:27:00.005+01:00

I’m sorry about the conspicuous silence. For the longest time I’ve been dying to tell you, and then, when I could, I just clamped up.

I could blame it on deadlines and kid with a nasty cold and press (Yikes! So strange being on the other end!) and Christmas preparations and all sorts of things, big and small. But honestly, I’m a little bit overwhelmed. I took the weekend off(ish), did some Christmas shopping, did some mental de-cluttering, watched Cars and wiped noses with Magnus, oh, some three hundred times. And still I feel a little off-kilter. In fact, I feel a little like Fuller in Home Alone, squished up behind that chair. Only happy.

Because… dear me. I can’t even claim that this is a dream come true. I may have said with some confidence that I was going to be a fantasy writer when I grew up, I may have quit my job, even, to get there, but I never imagined something like this.

I know it’s been inching nearer for quite a while, first with the suggestion that I should try to write a summary in English and translate a few chapters, just to see how it went. The suggestion came from my childhood friend Thomas, who’s quite new in the publishing business, but who turns out to have a fine nose for such things. He does things like pick up the Norwegian rights for Game of Thrones and American Gods before anyone else has realized they're going to be TV-series and connected the dots. All Thomas knew about Twistrose was what I’d told him, rather clumsily and very briefly, at a dinner party. But he knew at once (or so he claims). I really didn’t.

Then I signed with Jane Putch, the most amazing agent in the universe, again through the suggestion of good friends. I knew she accomplishes spectacular things. But when the deal with Dial happened, I was floored.

And yet, with the Publisher’s Weekly note, everything sort of hit me like a frying pan. A nice frying pan, mind you, one that has been frying bacon and brussels sprouts. (What? You don’t like brussels sprouts? Not even with hot bacon, butter and brandy? Huh.)But still quite hard. Like I said: I’m Fuller (but without the soda concerns, promise).

So now I have to shake off the dizzyness and get back to my routine, quickly. Twistrose may already be out this time next year, which means that I should promptly develop serious multitasking abilities, or give up sleeping or, you know, quit procrastinating. Ha.

What, now? Okay. Now.

Photos by Line Almhjell.

The softness of November

2011-11-11T13:25:00.005+01:00

Conversation between tiny boy and his mother in a gift shop. They are looking at Christmas decorations piled up in baskets and boxes, and the boy removes his mitten, closes his hand around a shiny bauble and shudders: "Soft!"
The mother arches her eyebrows. "That's not soft, is it, sweetie?"
"Soft inside, Mommy," the boy replies. "I'm soft inside the heart."

Me too, little boy.

Delicious, delicious secret

2011-10-29T13:16:00.003+02:00

Oh. I have the most delicious secret. And no, it's not that I need another haircut (because yikes).

Can't share yet.

But I'd say it's rather marvelous stuff, the kind of stuff that would make my knees watery if I could travel back in time and whisper it into my 20-year-old ear.

My secret reader

2011-09-23T15:15:00.005+02:00

From time to time I’m asked why I write.

It’s not because I want to create something that will last, or to see my name on the well-cracked spine of a book in a library, though these, too, are excellent reasons. It’s not because I have no choice. I can while away hours and days, lose myself in the everyday little: sparrow gazing, daycare runs, transactions and translations. It’s certainly not because I find it easy, or because I can’t think of anything else to do with my life. Writing costs, and having tried other paths, I’d say it’s pretty dear.

No. It’s because of her. You see, in the corner of my study, there is a big armchair. In the armchair sits a girl of eleven.

Her hair is cropped too short, and little spindly tufts are sticking out in weird places, mostly because it won't occur to her to wet her hair in the morning for several years still. But she doesn't pay the random curls any attention, she is too absorbed in her book. The pages keep turning, like the ticking of a very slow clock, and her eyes are shining, and it'll only be three more days until she puts the book down and says, "That was wonderful. What's next?"

If it were the eighties, in a small place too insignificant to be called a town, in the middle of Norway, the answer would be, “Nothing. After the Grey Havens, there’s nothing.” But it’s not, and I’m here typing like crazy so I can answer, "This is next. The Twistrose Key. You will love it."

Of course, the world has changed and expanded around her since then. Harry Potter and His Dark Materials and Daughter of Smoke and Bone and Plain Kate, and there are so many places to visit now that she may never have to sit there, stunned and lost, fearing that the time of adventure is already over.

And yet it is always her I write for, not for myself, and never for the people looking over my shoulder.

Random curls

2011-09-12T12:37:00.005+02:00

For the longest time, I just ran out of words. But after a while the path divides into two; those who lost someone that day go down the bleak, tangly one. Everyone else goes down the other, where caramel lattes and morning kisses and sparrows on your café table still make you grin.

And random curls. Random curls especially.

Oslo 22/7

2011-07-23T20:03:00.006+02:00

Yesterday, in our apartment on Grünerløkka, I felt the blast. I walked to the window, thinking it was the mother of all thunderclaps. No rain. And then the sirens.

My Pan's office is 30 meters away from the blast. His window is gone, the facade is warped and broken. The whole building is burnt out. If it were a regular Friday, he would have been there, because he never goes home early. But it wasn't a regular Friday. It was in the middle of the general vacation, and my Pan was hiking in the mountains. When he came home last night, I felt ugly alternate realities peel away right there. He's safe. Some of his colleagues were not so lucky.

My brother in law works in an independent record store only two blocks away from the blast. He was bending down to pick up something, right underneath the big windows, when the bomb went off. For some reason the windows didn't shatter, they just rattled around in their frames, even though windows broke everywhere along that street. He didn't get cut by glass. His co-worker was not so lucky.

My friend was on his way home yesterday afternoon. He contemplated going into a supermarket to pick up a couple of things, but decided that it could wait. How many minutes did that save him? Four? Five? Six? He crossed Einar Gerhardsens plass. Five minutes later it blew up. That woman with the ponytail on Dagsavisen's cover today was not so lucky.

I didn't know anyone on that island. I can't bear to think about that island. If I close my laptop and turn off the tv, I can attempt to shut it out, now that there are no more helicopters rushing to the hospital . So many - so many - are not so lucky.

Today I'm sitting here, shivering in all my luck, and all those parents, brothers, sisters, girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers, family, and friends rim every thought. I feel that I should do something. That I should help in some way. But my bloodtype is not the desired one. So instead I take my child to the park, and I'm not afraid. We have ice cream. I meet the eyes of strangers, to see if they, too, are tearing up.

I won't go into politics and tolerance and the press coverage here, though there is much to be said. Øystein Runde's post (in English) is a start.

Drive car fast

2011-07-05T21:56:00.004+02:00

Mags is putting together his first little sentences.

Mommy, what sayed you?/Mamma, hva sidde du?
Mommy, what you do?/Mamma, hva gjøre du?
Don't want to./Vil ikke.
That sure was good./Var godt, ja.
Drive car./Kjøre bil.
Drive car fast./Kjøre bil fort.

My summer vows

2011-06-23T16:57:00.004+02:00

Ack, I'm so busy! I hardly have time to spell my name right. I'm language editing the second part of the Norwegian translation of A Game of Thrones, and the deadline is July 1st, and due to some chicken-poxy hiccups, I'm behind schedule.

So these days, I just stay at my desk, all crazy-haired and wild-eyed, tearing through the pages like an insufferable, know-it-all whirlwind. But every few hours, I glance up and see the trees outside and remember that my summer holiday is only eight days away. Or is it seven? Gah! Must dash. Must whirl. But in the meantime, here are my summer promises. I will:

Eat sweet morello cherries.

Stay in the dappled shade.

Spend time at the cabin.

Read by the ocean.

Visit friends.

Stay healthy.

Lie in the grass.

Stay up too late.

Oh, and the photos are of course by Lin.

Seeds that bloom in the rain

2011-05-31T10:39:00.016+02:00

There's such a terrific rain in Grünerløkka today. The sort that makes strangers smile at each other as they huddle under newspapers and parapets, waiting for the tumbling grey to relent so they can brave the puddles and go to work. On days like these, I wish I could spirit my beloved Dromedar across the mountains and years.

I would open the narrow, white door of the café, and the bell would ring, and my favourite table with a view of the cathedral would be free. Because who ventures out in such weather? Only me, and the silent blonde girl with her tattered paperbacks, and the barista, who grins and starts my cardamom latte without even asking.

Smiling back, I shrug out of my rain gear: my grandmother's thick, white oilskin jacket, my "southwester" hat, already steaming in the warmth of the tiny room. And there's cookie jazz playing, and the blueberry muffins are fresh from the oven, and heavy drops are pelting the cobblestones outside.

As I sit there, trying to glimpse the green of the cathedral spire through the mists, an idea blooms in my head. What if a story began, right there, across the street, in the red, crooked house I've always pictured in that empty lot. What if it starts with a girl, staring out into the rain, unaware that she is already dreadfully late. I smile a little to myself. And then my latte is ready.

Photos: Lin and johnsarelli

Fairy tales do come true

2011-05-26T11:01:00.004+02:00

Remember the insane publisher party I told you about when my friend and agency sister Laini went to London? Well, here's what happened when she went to Book Expo America, the biggest book fair on the continent. That continent. You know. Just read it.

Magnus says: WOW. Magnus is right.

Looks like very old magic

2011-05-20T12:33:00.010+02:00

My friend Heidi often says that all of Norway looks like Narnia. I understand, but I don't agree. As a child, I never fell in love with Narnia as much as I did with The Lord of the Rings. There was always a sense that I was being tricked, that Lewis didn't truly believe in his world the way Tolkien did. Narnia just didn't feel real enough. It didn't feel true.

Of course, Norway does not look like Middle-Earth, either. It doesn't whisper of elves and dwarves and a peaceful time under the stars. But Norway has its very own flavor of magic. A green, old, wild sort of magic that gathers under mossy pines between towering mountains.

Or a gray, cold sort of magic that washes over rocks and shores along the coast, swirled up by seabirds.

Or a knowing, watchful magic that lingers under bridges and barns and old stone walls.

I secretly hope that some day, someone will say: Oh, all of Norway looks like Sylver. To which I would reply: On the contrary. All of Sylver looks like Norway.

All photos, as usual, by Lin.

A trip to the cabin

2011-05-10T10:36:00.009+02:00

One of the many good things about family vacations is that Lin and her camera are there to capture them. This Easter, we went to our new cabin on Tustna, an island in the Atlantic Ocean not far from Kristiansund. It's so pretty there. Just look:

Here's the view from the mountain that rises behind the cabin, Knubben. It's quite a climb, but I think it only took Lin and Eiv about two and a half hours to get up there. I didn't go, preferring to laze about on the sundeck...

Which feels a lot like this, only this is a photo from last summer. I read 'Breaking Dawn'.

The weather was mostly unusually fair, but we had one day of misty rain, where mountains and ocean were lost in layers of veil. We just stayed inside the cabin and ate chocolate and played yatzee.

This is the tiny copse that we have to pass through to get to the cabin. It's so dense, I've named it the Night Forest.

And here's the little bay just along the shoreline, where there are farms and houses and a small, sheltered harbour. While we were there, the landspace warmed from weary grey to fresh green.

A gaggle of giggling crocus. They can be rather silly, you know.

One day, our friends Cam and JohnE picked us up for a trip on the glassy ocean in their very nice boat. Magnus came, too, but I do believe he prefers puddles to all that water.

Because there truly is a lot of water, and air and light. So, does anyone want to come? It's even nicer in the summer.

Ketchup days and butter days

2011-05-04T14:55:00.006+02:00

Usually in the morning, my Pan makes himself a cheese sandwich before running off to work. Usually, it's Norvegia cheese and butter and nice bread. But sometimes, if it's been a particularly bumpy night, if Magnus has been up or sick or fussy, if there's a deadline at work, if he's late already, if the stack of bills is tall, he substitutes the butter for ketchup. Cheese, bread and ketchup.

So if I come into the kitchen and the red bottle sits on the counter, I know. Uh oh. It's a ketchup day.

Lately, there's been a lot of those, not only for Pan, but for Magnus and me, too. Viruses galore. Asthma. Hospitals. Eye problems. Messy house, messy work, messy nights and ketchup days.

All right, spring. Bring on the butter.

Photos: Minimalist101, Line

Second generation wolf

2011-04-07T11:58:00.008+02:00

A post on tollipop's blog about cousins got me thinking.

When I was a kid, we always went to grandmother's farm for summer and Christmas vacations. I adored my sweet, patient, kind grandmother, not to mention her tins of chocolate sheet cake and cookies that always waited under the bench in the hallway. But even more, I loved hanging out with my cousins.

Looking back, I'm amazed our parents seemed so relaxed as we roamed around our grandmother's farm like a pack of unruly wolves, getting into trouble every other minute, making so much noise I think we scared off every owl and fox between the mountains.
But man, we were happy. Those sled rides, those games in the attic and orchard and fields and woods! We kissed cats, we chased cows, we splashed in the icy stream. That's the kind of parent I would like to be. One that facilitates roaming and noise and adventure. I want wolf cubs.

Magnus has had a rough winter, but at least there's this: When I ask him if can howl like a wolf, he always answers: "Aooooooooooo!" It's a start.

The shivers

2011-03-25T13:23:00.007+01:00

I just finished 'Menneskehavn' by John Ajvide Lindquist. For those of you who don't know the name, he's the author of 'Let The Right One In', which I hope you have seen, the Swedish version, please. 'Menneskehavn' hasn't been translated into English yet, so I don't know what the title will be, but literally it means 'Human Harbor'.

Lindquist mixes realistic settings in modern day Sweden with horror, delving into modern myths like vampires and zombies, but always with a fresh, somber and deeply chilling angle. He's good. He's really good.

This time it was ghosts. Ghosts and creatures of the dark sea. Combined. Man.

I'm not going to say that I don't scare easily, because I do. I scary so easily, I can't watch horror movies. There and then I laugh (a little shrilly perhaps), but I always dream about them afterwards. Nightmares when I was five, nightmares now. Silly imagination.

(Actually, wonderful imagination. Thank you, Great Imagination Dispenser, for those extra couple of squirts. I do love them.)

'Menneskehavn' is the scariest thing I've read in a long time. It was a gift from a friend, and I hadn't read the back before I started it. (I like to do that sometimes. It's like running in the dark.) So when the main character slowly realizes that the presence he senses in his old summer house on the Swedish coast is in fact his dead six-year-old, I cringed with him. When he finds out that the ghost is connected with the dark waters right outside his walls, my belly stung. Dead children and the ocean are definitely on my top five most frightening list, along with women in white nightgowns with hidden faces, old clocks, and porcelain dolls.

At one point, I stayed awake most of the night because I was too afraid to go to sleep. And Magnus still wakes up 10 times every night and my Pan and I have to split the night into shifts just to get by, so one night of lost sleep is A LOT.

Then I spotted Magnus's red winter suit hanging on the bedroom chair, and well...

I think you should read it if you can.

Now for shivers of a more pleasant sort: You have to read what happened to my friend Laini when she went to London to meet the British publishers of her next book, Daughter of Smoke and Bone. Good heavens. The costumes alone!

(Photo by my fantastically talented sister Line, as always, and this time the photo is of her as well).

In which I get my four-year-old heart broken

2011-03-06T20:03:00.012+01:00

I have some grave news about pacifiers. They're not for 37-year-olds.

I remember the day I stopped using one very well. It was my fourth birthday, and my father was tucking me in, and we agreed that I was a big girl now, too big for pacifiers. He turned off the light and I curled up to sleep, feeling both proud and completely lost.

My dad must have been so relieved, he'd been trying to get me to quit for quite some time. Once he took me up on deck of the boat back to Trondheim from the windswept little peninsula where he worked as a teacher. He wanted me to throw the pacifier in the water, so I would know that it was really, truly gone. Eager to please my dad, I plucked it out of my mouth and let it go over the rail. I watched with mounting horror as my pacifier, my love, was swallowed by the churning wake, so thoroughly that it didn't even re-surface before the wake was lost in darkness. Of course I wailed all the way to Trondheim, a good ninety minutes, and our first stop when we reached the city was a pharmacist's.

And now, having watched the stars in Magnus's eyes whenever his darling 'mem' is brought out, I was convinced that I remembered correctly: Nothing in the whole world could be more comforting and soothing.

So I tried it. It was dry, rubbery, awkward and not a little bit exhausting.

Which is not to say that the hole in my four-year-old heart is mended. Not at all. On the contrary, even. I guess some memories are best left alone.

UPDATE: Magnus would like to point out that mothers are clueless.

Grünerløkka: home of superheroes

2011-02-23T19:52:00.006+01:00

Grünerløkka sidewalks in February are the hip joint equivalent of a perfect storm: Ice polished to a dull gleam, uneven like a rumpled sheet, treacherous like a Lannister, covered by a mealy layer of grey, dry snow with the occasional patch of half-sunken gravel thrown in for interest. It's miracle we even make it to the store.

But we do. In fact, so far this year, I have not seen a single person fall. My theory is we've developed the ability to hover. Our legs may flail all over the place like a riverdance prodigy drunk on Dr.Pepper, but our upper bodies just float on serenely until the legs are back in service. Flying cars and Superman are just a few kroner and some spandex away.

Now, if we could just add teleport to our tricks, that would be great.

I know where I would go... Do you?

Black, white and very, very blue.

2011-02-12T20:25:00.006+01:00

Yes, yes, I know, endless posts of kids and cats. But I couldn't not post these photos. Isn't it strange how blue eyes look even bluer in black and white?

It must be said that not every child is lucky enough to have a lens-wielding aunt this talented. Did she mention that she tied for top of her class at Bilder? No? Guess she forgot.

That's okay, Lin. Magnus and I know exactly how fabulous you are.

Balthasar and me, shopping malfunction

2011-02-07T13:16:00.010+01:00

Balthasar: Toneladyyyyyyy! Toneladyyyyyyyy!
Me: (mutters) Here we go again.... What is it, Balthus?
Balthasar: I want fishy treeeeaaaats!
Me: I told you. You can't have any.
Balthasar: Whyyyyyyy? I want fishy treeeaaaats!
Me: Because we don't have any. (opens cupboard) See? Empty.
Balthasar: But I want sooooooome.
Me: You've made that pretty clear, all day and all night. However, I'm no fishy treat magician. I can't conjure them out of thin air.
Balthasar: But you always say we don't have any, and then, after I've done some howling, we seem to have them anyway. Oooooooooo.
Me: Yes, but this time it's actually true. I forgot to buy fishy treats. There are no fishy treats.
Balthasar: Nooooooooo. You just don't love meeeeeeee. You want me to staaaaaaaarve.
Me: Look, mister, your bowl is full of healthy food. Have some of that instead!
Balthasar: But it's not fishyyyyyyyy!
Me: (hides face in hands) Just please, Balthus, shut up for a minute! I'm trying to work here! I promise I'll get fishy treats when I go out today.
Balthasar: Do it noooooooooow! Noooooooow! Noooooooow!
Me: But... I'm working!
Balthasar: Noooooooooooow!
Me: (gets up, puts on coat, very ashamed). I can't believe this. I've just lost an argument with the dimmest of my cats.
Balthasar: (curls up on couch) Okaythanks, I'll just nap while you're gone. Get some chicken bits for Pims as well, I don't want her nosing in my treats. There's a clever Tonelady.
Me: (sighs) I don't know about that, Balthasar. I really don't know about that.

Huh! scratches head

2011-02-02T16:59:00.004+01:00

What kid doesn't like pancakes? Sweet pancakes? Or waffles? Also sweet?

This one:

What a strange little guy. I mean, come on.

Come on.

Well, more for me then.

A detour to Westeros

2011-01-31T22:09:00.007+01:00

What's new in Marselis these days? Very little. Magnus is still sick. I'm still under the weather. The cats are still cute. Words still stick to my fingertips.

There is one fresh element, though. This week and the next I'm copy editing the Norwegian edition of A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. I know I should be concentrating on Twistrose, but sometimes it's necessary to do some extra work to bring in some money.

Besides, A Game of Thrones is one of my favourite novels, so I quite enjoy it. I love the world Martin has created, I love the northernness of it, I love the sheer scale of the unfolding doom, and I adore the characters (though I often wish Martin were a little gentler with his literary offspring). I can't wait to see the HBO series that's airing sometime this spring.

Another nice thing about meticulously scouring Martin's (or rather, the translators') text for flaws, word for word, paragraph for paragraph, is that the construction work that binds it is revealed. Martin is a clever craftsman and a fine writer, yet even he must build his story with the same tools and material as everyone else.

Whether we're making a gothic cathedral or a ramshackle shed, writers need nails and screws and mortar. We all have to keep adding one bit to the next until we have a house.

And even the prettiest of castles have seams and construction scars to show for it. I find this most encouraging after a week of endless and rather frustrating construction work on particularly nut-and-bolt-heavy chapter of my book.

In other good news I recently found out that the sequel to the fabulous The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss is out this March. Moreover, the next installment in my very favourite fantasy series, The Gentleman Bastard Sequence by Scott Lynch, is rumoured to be released this spring, too: The Republic of Thieves . That one I've been craving for a long time, and I'm not ashamed to admit that it's partly because I have the biggest crush on Locke Lamora. Last I saw him, he was dying. But you're better now, right, Locke?

So there's good stuff ahead. Until then I guess there's nothing for it but to hunker down, get lost in the world of Westeros, and wait for spring.

(photos by Lin: Balthasar as kitten, brick wall in Oslo, wooden cottage in Innerdalen, the Swedish royal castle.)

I bet November is on sale

2011-01-25T10:47:00.006+01:00

Aaaand then it was Magnus's turn. Poor sweetheart.

I think I'd like to return this particular January. It really has been no good. (Well, except for the stellar agent news, but technically that happened over Christmas, so I'm not crediting January with that. Oh, and except for the trip to Kristiansund. That was nice.) I'm thinking I could get a November. I've always been partial to Novembers. And since everyone else seems to hate them, I bet they're cheap.

If I'm lucky, I might stumble upon a forgotten August. I adore August, when the nights finally deepen, and the bugs grow wise, and the cafés fill up with new beginnings.

But really, I'd take March. Or even a different January. Just not this one.

(photos by Lin, who by the way has been sick for ten days, too.)

In which I am twelve years old

2011-01-22T19:42:00.016+01:00

Pims: So, Tone, tell your readers. What have you been up to while you've been sick?
Tone: Er... I've watched some tv.
Pims: Some tv?
Me: Well, some, a lot, what's the difference? Anyway, it was mostly educational, interesting stuff that is sure to land me points in the next Trivial Pursuit game.
Pims: Really? Care to share some of that enlightenment?
Me: Sure. Ancient Egypt was... World War Two... I mean, the referendum in Sudan... I mean... Oh, all right. I've been watching The Vampire Diaries.
Pims: You have, haven't you. I bet you managed to squeeze in a few episodes, then, since you've been slouching on that couch for days now.
Me: Well, you see, I only had the one episode on my tivo. But I've seen that quite a few times.
Pims: The whole episode?
Me: .... No. Just this one scene, where Damon tells Elena he loves her, and then makes her forget afterwards, and he cries while he does it. And there's this really sad song in the background.
Pims: I see. And how old are you?
Me: Pims! That's rude. Besides, I'm not too old to swoon over a little romance. I don't think you ever get too old for that.
Pims: You tell yourself whatever you like, sniffles. Now delete that episode, or I'll be forced to intervene.
Me: But it's so sad! So romantic! So fantastically cheesy... I can't...
Pims: (produces withering stare of a quality only cats aspire to)
Me: Okay, okay. It's gone.
Me: (mutters to self) Good thing you don't know about youtube.

I just want to snuggle and snooze

2011-01-20T12:30:00.011+01:00

Ugh, I have such a terrible cold! Ear and throat infection, too I think. This does not compute well with teething toddler and no proper sleep for about 16 months. And my poor Pan has to mangage all daycare drop-off and pick-up and as well as night soothing while I cough and sneeze and slip in and out of fever dreams. I'm off to see the doctor, when really I just want to stay in bed. This bed:

I just hope the sparkly things don't make twinkly noises, because all sound acquires a metallic twang in my bad ear, and it's a little disconcerting. And if someone could bring me honeyed tea in this cup:

And then, if I could just get a kiss from this little one, that would really make me feel better. Wait, I already got that.

The bed and cup are from Anthropologie, the kiss is a snap of the very first time Pims and I met.

Strap on your fiduciaries, people!

2011-01-18T20:08:00.011+01:00

There are words that fit their meaning perfectly. Slob, for one. And lozenge. But then there are words that are entirely unsuited to their designated semantics. It's as if they've slipped through the cracks of a dictionary and landed on the wrong page. They are chained to the mundane, the drab even, when really they should set eyes aglow just by bouncing off the tip of someone's tongue.

Like fiduciary. It means, among other equally boring stuff, 'a person who holds assets in trust for a beneficiary'. But just swirl it around in you mouth for a bit! Fiduciary, fiduciary, fiduciary. See what I mean? Couldn't it, shouldn't it rather be the word for a technomagical contraption that you strap onto your back so you can jump up on rooftops with a mere flex of your bottom?

As in 'Albert! Put on your fiduciary and get up here! You have to see this!'

If I were a masked dictionary vigilante, you could consider yourself rescued, fiduciary. Ah well. Maybe if I change careers again.

But what was there to see on the rooftop, you may wonder? Sadly, I don't yet own a fiduciary, so I'm not sure.

(Barcelona rooftops by Toni Camara, fox by markkilner, rabbit by Mecaniques, fussball gnome by gnomebomb.)

Dusk marked, cranium pale

2011-01-17T18:33:00.008+01:00

This whole winter has been a succession of fierce cold spells and heavy snows. But today the sun showed its face through a January veil, illuminating my skin through the café window without cutting my eyes. It was so glorious to sit in the light for a while.

One of my favourite poems is one by the Norwegian author Stein Mehren. It's called 'Fattigdom', or 'Poverty'. But really it is about light, of a different kind than the one I basked in today. At the very least it lights my mind on fire. So much so that it the feeling it evokes is weaved into the fabric of the second part of my story, the part concerning Balthasar Lycke. In Norwegian it goes like this:

I min barndom kunne du fremdeles se
hvilke gater barn kom fra
Fattigdommen skinte som en måne
under huden på dem. En bakgårdssol

Fra et steinloft inne i lyset
Barn, skumringsmerkede, kraniebleke
som var de fødd opp
på koks, skummet melk og måneskinn

I hesitate to translate it myself. It's probably been done before and by someone far more competent. But a quick search revealed nothing, and I'm afraid the internet is the very worst sort of crowd for my inherent impatience. If I can't find something immediately, I simply ramble on. And so, with apologies for my character flaws, here's my rendering:

In my childhood you could still see
which streets the children lived on
Poverty shone like a moon
beneath their skin. A backyard sun

From a stony loft within the light
Children, dusk marked, cranium pale
As though they were raised
on coal, skimmed milk and moonlight.

Erin Bow, author of Plain Kate, named the poem The Writer by Richard Wilbur as one of the things that 'kept her going'. And I get why. It really is inspirational. Do you have a favourite?

Good one, Mum!

2011-01-15T13:20:00.006+01:00

See, whoever came up with the idea that Magnus and I should go to Kristiansund to my mother's this weekend is a genious. Pan is off on a mountain trip with his buddies, and with the prolonged misery of massive teething, (we're talking mountain ranges, not peaks) there was a lot of sleeplessness ahead for the kid and me. Instead I've slept two nights in a row, and today I slept in.

For those of you who don't have kids yet, or have kids that sleep well, this obsession with sleep must seem outlandish. But it's been 16 months since our young padawan joined us, and I can assure you, there is nothing more wonderful than uninterrupted, peaceful, deep sleep. I'd choose it over cake, latte and chocolate any day. And that's saying something.

Besides, I don't have to choose. There's cake, too, and we get to hang out with my sister and mother all day long. So nice! On the downside, there is very little writing going on here out west. No space and no time and no daycare to look after Magnus while I hurry up and work. But it's only for a few days. Much as I love being here, I'm glad. Writing is going really well these days. Maybe I'm spurred on by the good agent news? Or maybe it's the gloom of January. It's perfect for sitting by the fire, sipping hot, sweet tea and getting lost in the crooked, snowy alleys of Sylver.

Secret revealed! Yay!

2011-01-08T16:30:00.009+01:00

Finally I can tell you the great secret! And let me assure you, it is great! So great that I don't really know what to do or feel about it.

You know in Love Actually, when the two body doubles have been on a date, and it went really well, and she's incredibly cute, and they're standing on her doorstep, kissing? After she closes the door behind her, he jumps off the steps and lifts his hands in an awkward but very happy HA! That's how I feel. I'm Martin Freeman. All bubbly inside, but too flabbergasted to really show it. Or get it. Or believe it.

But it's true nevertheless!

I, weird little debutant Norwegian me, have an agent. An agent. In Los Angeles. And not any agent, either. She is the wonderfully fantastic and almost unbelieveably cool Jane Putch, who is also the agent of the equally fantastic and dauntingly talented Laini Taylor. I'm Laini's agency sister. You could actually mention us in the same sentence, if you wanted.

HA!

In the spirit of Stephanie Perkins, who broke out the rainbows and unicorns to celebrate when she got her agent, this calls for some sparklers:

Wohoooo! Yay me! Yay Jane! Yay Laini and everyone who has ever helped me with my story! Happy New Year! With sugar on top!

But what does this mean, you may ask. What will happen now?

Hey, don't look at me, I've just landed on the street with an awkward and astounded HA! But I hope it means that some day, in the not so distant future, in a galaxy quite near to you, my book will find its way into the hands of some nice editor who will love it. And then, if everything works out, the book will be published. In English. So you can read it.

Let me rephrase that:

HURRAH!

(photos, always, always, by my best friend and sister Line)

Secret continued...

2011-01-04T16:45:00.003+01:00

Actually, I'm just teasing. There are things that must happen before it's official, I feel. But they're formalities, and will soon be in order, and then I'll tell. Promise!

(Though in fact, I suspect that many who read this blog already know.)

Merry belated Christmas! And a secret!

2010-12-30T22:00:00.005+01:00

How was your holiday? We just returned from my mother's in Kristiansund, and I think this was one of the nicest Christmases I can remember. Christmas Eve was especially perfect. It's my favourite day of the whole year, and I love it when everything turns out exactly as everyone hoped.

We lit candles on my father's grave at twilight. It was cold, the snow was creaky, and in the blue of the fourth hour, Gravsted looked so very beautiful.

Magnus was a complete sweetheart. He opened his first present, a soft rabbit plushie from Uncle Steel, and decided that it was enough. It was all he ever wanted. He carried the rabbit around the rest of the week, nuzzling its ears and neck with a look of gleeful bliss on his face.

Magnus also decided he wanted to sing like Sølvguttene on tv. He stood there staring for a good five minutes, which certainly is unusually long for our little robot fighter.

And there was good wine and better company. And then there was some celebrating. I've had news, you see, good news. How good? Well, to quote Severus Snape (nerdy points if you know the quote):

The best.

But more on that later. For now you must enjoy what is left of your holiday and begin the new year with hopes and bubbles, and if you have them: kittens.

Our best obnoxious Travolta movie impression

2010-12-14T21:23:00.008+01:00

Magnus: Mum, what are we doing?
Me: Shhh. We're pretending it's Christmas. Just smile and look for Santa Claus.
Magnus: Who?
Me: You know, with the beard and the presents.
Magnus: But that's Tante Line out there with a camera. She doesn't have a beard. Or presents. Unless the camera is for me?
Me: Um, no. But since it's pretend Christmas, I'm sure she'll kiss you under the mistletoe afterwards.
Magnus: Yay! I like Christmas. I like Tante Line. In fact, Line is the only word I can say these days, when I'm not on your blog, pretend-talking like a baby in a bad Travolta movie.
Me: But you could try some other words! Can you say Mamma? Mamma?
Magnus: ....
Me: (sighing) Line?
Magnus: Line.
Me: Right.
Magnus: Can I have presents, then? And a beard?
Me: Sure you can. Later. Now let's have some mercy on our readers and shut up.
Magnus: And smile. And look for Santa Claus.
Me: Definitely look for Santa Claus.

Balthasar and me

2010-12-05T21:47:00.004+01:00

Me: Oh come on, Balthus, just one hug?
Balthasar: Nah. You stink.
Me: I do not! You're the smelly one, Mr. Fishybreath!
Balthasar: That's because I've got human face grease in my fur.
Me: That's... Wow, we really are disgusting, aren't we. Sorry.
Balthasar: I'll forgive you if you give me fish treats. And not two this time. A pile.
Me: But I gave you some twenty minutes ago! You can't have treats all the time, you know.
Balthasar: Why not? YOU have treats all the time. At least my treats are healthy.
Me: I do not have treats ALL the time...
Balthasar: No?
Me: ... Aw, man...

(at which point I give in and rustle up a pile of fish treats.)

For everyone who ever felt a tingle

2010-12-02T11:01:00.004+01:00

The bookchild of the wonderfully witty and sweet Stephanie Perkins is out today.

'Anna and the French Kiss' is about a girl who moves to Paris and meets a certain boy named Étienne St. Clair. If you're the sort who thinks Knausgård is the bee's knees and who judges young love to be no more real than artificial sweetener, then this book is not for you. But if you have any recollection whatsoever of how it felt, that insane, delicious, excruciating tingle in you belly when someone you liked happened to glance your way - then I believe there is no better book for you than this.

"Very sly. Very funny. Very romantic. You should date this book."

(Maureen Johnson)

You probably can't get in in Norwegain book stores, but there is always Amazon:

My favourite part of the year!

2010-11-29T11:56:00.013+01:00

It's here, it's here! What's here, you may ask, and the answer is: everything nice, covered in ice!

Winter is here. A few weeks ago, frost descended on Grünerløkka with a hush and a faint crackle, and it hasn't lifted. I don't think it will for a long time. A shame for the ducks on the river and the poor, shivering rats. (That's right. I think they're cute. I don't want one in my room, but I thinks it's fine that they're in the basement. I know. I shall make a crazy, crazy old woman one day.) But wonderful for the rest of us! Everything sparkles, everything crunches, there are puffs of breath and wisps of smoke and the scent of birch wood on the air. And yesterday, the snow came, too, on the breast of an icy northern gale. It was almost too cold to go outside. But today the snow is rosy and calm in the red sun. I love it, even if it is a little chilly when Magnus and I go out in the mornings.

Advent is here. Yesterday was the first Sunday of Advent, and I got out my decorations. The star, the four-armed candlestick, the mistletoe, the white paper stars and the little doe. I love them all, (and so does Balthasar, because he loves to show that little doe who's boss. This morning I found it on the bathroom rug.) and I'm so glad they're here to stay for a good month.

Christmas is here. Which is the same, but not. I secretly love this part of Christmas the most. I watch Christmas movies, listen to Christmas music, read Christmas magazines, nibble on cookies and marzipan and clementines and chocolate, have spicy tea.

The wild and crazy flurry of things to do is here. I haven't even started the shopping yet. This year I don't have much money for presents, but I'm going to make it work anyhow. The other day, Magnus and I stopped outside the toystore to look at a pretty window display, with moving trains and little ice skaters. His eyes were very wide. It was so sweet, but still only a tiny taste of what is to come. Because Magnus doesn't know yet. He doesn't know how Christmas will make his little belly tingle with anticipation and delight. The other day I read a letter in the newspaper that went something like this:

Dear Sir,

Could you please make time go faster so that Christmas can come? I can't bear the waiting anymore.

Marthe 6 1/2

Ah, but Marthe, you must be careful what you ask for. As it says in one of the Astrid Lindgren stories I always read this time of year:

'Christmas Eve is a long day, but even so, it ends. The candles have burnt down, everyone has received their presents, everyone has cracked their nuts, everyone has eaten apples and candy, no one wants to do more singing around the Christmas tree. That's when Marikken hides her face in her hands and sobs heartachingly.
- Oh mother, it's over! I can't believe that's it's already over!'

But that moment is almost four weeks from now. Thank heavens!

In the spirit of the day

2010-11-25T12:56:00.005+01:00

It's thanksgiving, and as usual, there are heaps and tons of things to be thankful for in my life. Needless to say, this little guy is at the top of the list:

See how funny he is? He just loves to play hide and seek. I'm also thankful that he likes his daycare centre. The main reason for this, I suspect, is his cool and competent teacher Prema, who sent me these photos. The boy has taste, I'll give him that!

We're actually not really celebrating until tomorrow, since everyone's got work on Friday. But happy thanksgiving to you! I hope that your turkey is perfect, and that the pie is sweet, and that even if you're not the gobble-gobbling type, you are safe and surrounded by family and loved ones.

A note of hesitation

2010-11-24T11:51:00.007+01:00

Good afternoon, Twistrose, my neglected story. It's been a whole week (of sick child and ensuing chaos) since I saw you last. Now I don't quite know how to approach you. You're like a house that I have returned to after a long, exhausting journey. You look the same, but not.

I can't find any changes in your facade. But you're taller, more forbidding somehow, and I have this sinking feeling that things have been happening underneath your roof that have nothing to do with me.

Behind your windows, clocks are ticking. Cogwheels are turning. There's a draft in your stairways, and your backyard is darker.

So I'm writing you this, skulking at the gate, peering at the shadows behind your frosted panes. Hope I still have the key somewhere.

photo 'haunted mansion' by express monorail

The jedi and the kitchen table goblin

2010-11-19T16:12:00.005+01:00

At fourteen months, Magnus has constructed his first lightsaber. Now I'm just waiting for him to mutter 'This is not the pacifier you're looking for'.

He has a new friend, too. One day, I noticed that he kept peeking under the kitchen table, giggling and babbling and clapping his hands. I looked under the table, but there was nothing there. Then I noticed two knot holes in the grain of the wood. They are just like two brown eyes, twinkling and merry. Apparantely, Magnus has befriended the goblin in the table, and now they share secrets and jokes.

That's the first time Magnus' imagination has truly revealed itself, and it makes my eyes well up with joy.

Neck + Love

2010-11-08T17:59:00.001+01:00

There are certains corners of the universe that simply must be kissed.

Marcelius

2010-10-19T11:16:00.006+02:00

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!

2010-10-12T14:30:00.006+02:00

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.

2010-10-08T19:48:00.007+02:00

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

2010-10-05T10:14:00.005+02:00

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

2010-10-03T19:47:00.004+02:00

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.

Kissing in the lost square

2010-09-27T08:13:00.006+02:00

I've spent the weekend in Stockholm with my Pan. It was our first little sortie from the baby bubble. We missed Magnus, but it was wonderful, from the moment we ran out of our building to the taxi and my Pan held an umbrella over my hair so I wouldn't look like a soaked kitten, and to the moment we got back.

We stayed at Hotel Rival, where we got engaged almost five years ago. We ordered room service and drank wine from the mini bar and had our fabulous breakfast delivered late, late in the morning.

We strolled around Gamla Stan, curling up on a bench in the prettiest square imaginable, under a goldening chestnut tree. In fact, it was the square that eluded us the first last time we were in Stockholm, five years ago. Pan had been there once before, and planned on proposing to me underneath the chestnut. But no matter where we went, he couldn't find it! I had no idea, so I couldn't understand why he seemed so nervous and why he kept glancing around as if someone were following us, tee hee. This time we just walked in an unlikely direction on a whim, and there it was! We know where you are now, Brända Tomten, so we'll be seeing you again.

Later, we had dinner at a cozy bistro in Söder. I had some excellent chanterelle toast, a very nice pan fried plaice and, of course, crème brulée for dessert. I always get the crème brulée if it's on the menu.

We walked around Söder, hanging out in cafés and reading magazines. And we slept two entire nights in a row in the comfiest bed I've ever found in a hotel room. Hurrah!

Happy anniversary, Pan! It was an amazing weekend.

Heartbreaker

2010-09-20T08:37:00.000+02:00

That's how he looks at his auntie Lin. Ah, kid, how did you get to be this cute?

Choices, choices

2010-09-09T11:36:00.004+02:00

Let's see:

Tea and Skittles? Or black coffee and dark Belgian chocolate?

Being a grown-up means I can have as much candy as I like and stay up as late as I fancy. But here's the mindboggling thing: Most of the time, I don't.

Ah, but of course. Tea and Skittles, then dark coffee and Belgian chocolate.

Good night, Tante Else

2010-09-07T12:23:00.006+02:00

I've been thinking about Tante Else. This, you understand, is a little odd, because Tante Else wasn't my tante, or aunt, as you would say. I never met her. I know almost nothing about her.

Tante Else was the great aunt of a boy I was dating in the mid-90's. I'm not sure anymore, but I don't think he even mentioned that he had a great aunt until she died.

On the morning of the funeral, we realised that none of us knew exactly where the church was. Because this was before the age of ubiquitous internet, we spent some time running around in the streets of Sagene, faded black funeral wear flapping in the wind. Five minutes after the service was supposed to have begun, we finally found the right place. It was a drab brick building with no trees to shelter it from the noise of traffic. The second we sat down in the glum rows, panting and sweating, the bells tolled. They had waited for us.

I looked around, and the reason for this rather undeserved kindness became clear: Apart from my boyfriend's dad and stepmother, a minister and a gruff-looking funeral attendant, we were the only ones there.

The minister read briefly from a single sheet of paper. Tante Else was born in Oslo. She never married. She was a very nice lady, sweet and helpful. Then he moved on to bible quotes. No stories, no juicy anecdotes, nothing to reveal what Tante Else had loved, or hoped for, or dreamed of.

During the ceremony, I was the only one who cried. Painfully aware of the odd glances her family gave me, I sobbed for the lost heart of Tante Else, who lived and left so quietly that there were no words left in her wake.

After the service, over sandwiches and coffee, I learned that Tante Else had been in love, once, when she was very young. Her love had left for America, like so many did back then. Tante Else was going to join him. She even had a ticket and a great big suitcase ready.

But then her mother fell ill. There were other siblings, but none that were willing or able to care for the mother. So Tante Else stayed, and she never saw her love again. Or so my boyfriend's stepmother said, between mouthfuls of catered sandwich.

Tante Else, I just know there were a thousand little things to tell about you, and that your family probably knew them all so well it never occured to them to recite them when you died. I am, or would have been, if our paths had ever actually crossed, a stranger. I know nothing about the patterns and comforts of your life, and I can only guess how it felt to willingly lock your heart in a cage that must have chafed it raw.

But I still think about you now and again. 'I wonder', I think whenever I find myself in Sagene, 'Did Tante Else ever walk in this park? Did she like it? Did she feed the pigeons, or did she toss the crumbles at the sparrows, like I always do?' I feel certain that you fed the birds, though. You were, I've heard told, a very nice lady.

All hands on deck, and polish!

2010-08-31T12:57:00.006+02:00

I've spent some time revisiting old heroes. Now that I've written a book myself, I wanted to touch ground with some of my favourite stories and storytellers, to steep my brain in their magic before taking another long look at the manuscript.

First up is The Lord of the Rings. It was my first true book love, and I don't care how fashionable or un-fashionable it is. I wrote my Master's thesis on the mapping out of free will and fate in tLotR, so this is not the first time I've held it under a microscope. One of the things that caught my attention this time was this:

Tolkien makes the story flow smoothly even when there are piles of characters on the scene. You would think it was impossible to have good dialogue between nine people or more without jumbling it up. But Tokien pulls it off. He doesn't make his characters step forward dramatically to claim the spotlight musical-style. They simply speak, even when they haven't said anything for a while. Moreover, it never feels abrupt or non-sequitur. Tolkien trusts the reader to keep sufficient track of the players, and it works.

For a long time, I shied away from big crowds for fear that I couldn't be quite as elegant or confident as Tolkien. But for the final chapters, the tying up of many threads and the need for closure both demand all hands on deck.

Clariselyn the Queen, Teodor the Flamewatcher, Eleonora the Hidden, Nikolaus the Master, Trasher, and timid, little Nit: They're are all there at the end. More peripheral characters like Sophie, Lass, Close, Littlebear and Bigbear also get to say a brief goodbye. And then there's Lin and Gwen. Somehow, their story needs to come to its inevitable, sad halt right there, in the middle of the crowd.

Well. I hope I have it now. It feels right to me, at least, and then we'll see what my readers think.

Another thing Tolkien did right was taking his time with the ending. The Lord of the Rings would certainly not be such a beautiful and poignant story if he had left it at the Field of Cornmallen.

Of course, I don't have a hundred pages to wrap everything up in The Child of Ice. All the more reason to keep polishing until it truly shines.

That was fast... and very slow

2010-08-28T22:04:00.010+02:00

One year ago today:

And now, incredibly:

Well, my funny little son. You won't remember this time, but let me tell you a little about yourself, for future reference:

You can say mamma and pappa and hi and no and go. You can't walk yet, but you know how to low-five and how to gobble like a turkey (useful!). You like to dance. You love to play air drums (and sometimes eardrums). You could fit an extra tooth between your brand new front teeth. Your favourite tv is a Swedish puppet show meant for kids at least four times your age. Your favourite book is The Gruffalo, which you love even more if we call it The Gobble-goo. Your favourite food is blueberries soaked in maple syrup. You're no fan of sleeping, or resting, or staying still in general, but that's (mostly) okay, because you're really smart and charming and it's so cool to watch the cogs and gears whirr furiously inside that little head of yours.

Happy birthday, dear robot fighter! May the force forever be squarely on your side.

(You know your mum is.)

Summerhill

2010-08-04T11:04:00.003+02:00

If you ever wonder about Summerhill, the farm in my story, and what it looks like and feels like to be there, you only have to look at these photos (and forgive me for re-blogging, Line, but they're just so beautiful).

Her feet barely touched the ground

2010-07-25T23:02:00.004+02:00

'It's confusing', my grandmother said, propped up by many pillows. 'Sometimes I think that I am herding cows in the mountains, and the sun is up, and I am late. So I just swing my feet over the edge of the bed and run. But then I haven't, I don't'.

Of course she didn't. But now she has.

Follower

2010-07-14T19:14:00.005+02:00

Mostly Magnus looks like his dad. But sometimes, when his eyes flash a certain cheeky cleverness, he looks like my Dad.

July 14.

Chapters follow chapters, and stories follow stories, and blue eyes follow everything.

The most beautiful place in the world.

2010-07-12T21:37:00.009+02:00

Yesterday, we left the rugged-pretty islands of Kristiansund and headed inland, past emerald fields and bottle green waters to a place even prettier still.

Nestled between crazy wild mountains lies the small valley of Innerdalen, by many considered the most beautiful valley in Norway. I haven't seen all of them, of course. But how any valley, or any place place for that matter, could possibly be more gorgeous than this, I don't know.

It was an hour's trudge along a steep dirt road to get there. Magnus was carried up in a sherpani, and he loved every second of the trip.

Impossibly sharp mountain tops rake the sky in all directions. On the other side is Almhjell.

White waterfalls and a green glacier feed the deep, clear lake.

And it smells wonderful, too, clean and moist and green. The fields are tangled with bluebells and buttercups.

There is a farm, where you can rest (or spend the night if you like), in comfortable companionship with fat cows and baby goats and hens, and where you can buy the most exquisite waffles with homemade black currant jam and sour cream from said cows, so fresh and rich it's almost yellow.

If you haven't been there and ever get the chance, go. We're going back when Magnus is a little older, so he can race the baby goats. And so I can have more of those waffles!

All the photos are by Line, and there are more on her flickr account if you want to see.

Man, I'm cute

2010-06-21T10:58:00.002+02:00

Fun fact: His mother is carrying two almonds in her bra. And no, that's not a euphemism.

Eat Girl

2010-06-19T12:01:00.008+02:00

I seem to be spending a disproportionate amount of time wondering what kind of superpower I would like to have, if one was offered. Usually, I'm a fan of teleport. You know, zip zap Sonoma, sproing boing Marrakesh. Or Serengeti. Or Bhutan.

Not to mention: here's a hug, Mom, here's my baby, Grandma!

But lately, well, I've been flirting with a new idea. It's not exactly a superpower, really. I mean, comic book fans would frown upon this with tall, tall foreheads. But still.

What if I could order anything I wanted in any reastaurant I came across, and what if I could eat it all without ever gaining weight or feeling stuffed or gross in any way. That would be something. I could call myself Eat Girl, or Lunchette. I could have a costume, too, and wear a napkin instead of a cape.

The blueberry maple syryp bacon pancakes at Food Story would definitely be a staple. Sigh.

UPDATE: I'm sorry, Lunchette is a really terrible superhero moniker. But Eat Girl feels a little dated, you know. Any suggestions? Gluttonie? Doctor Devour?

Didn't go in, just pecking on the surface

2010-06-18T11:39:00.006+02:00

Pan's leave is over, and I'm back on Magnus duty for some time now. I didn't finish the story. I got as far as the very end of the end, you know, revelations and goodbyes.

Almost there, almost there!

I did write a version, but then I realised it was too cruel, too sad. In my taste, endings should be bitter sweet, but not too bitter, and I definitely overdid it on the gin the first time around. But I have it more or less figured out now, and I think, come Peter's vacation in a few weeks, I just might get there.

But for now, it's all about wild&fast&fun, with a generous sprinkling of comforting&kisses because of ear and eye infections. We're headed up to Kristiansund for a few weeks soon, but first we've got a madly busy week ahead, with Pan going off to Brussels on business and Magnus and I battling hospitals and insomnia on our own.

But not completely on our own. No, never. Balthus has decided that I am the love of his life, and follows my every step around the house. He waits all night outside the bedroom for me to get up, and he actually whines if I hug Pims. Right now he is lying next to me, purring like a little diesel engine, with the computer fan sighing hotly in the white fur underneath his chin. You only have three minutes, Balt, and then nap time will be over for sure.

Yes, the rumour is true. I am still alive.

2010-06-08T20:18:00.011+02:00

I've been neglecting my blog terribly for some time now. I've just been so busy! I know, that's a cheap excuse. But unlike some, I can only cough up sp many sentences in a day, especially when I haven't slept much, and lately they've all been going into my story. But here's a quick recap of the past few weeks:

Grünerwise: After a long, chill spring, summer suddenly showed up, and it was perfect. Just above 20 degrees (that's celsius, of course), breezy, vibrantly green. Any hotter and the apartment becomes stifling, but this was just wonderful.

Caféwise: We've found a new haunt to replace poor Påfyll, and it's Food Story. I've mentioned this place before, but these days we hang out in their back yard, which is charmingly decorated with unruly flowers in old tin cans and mismatching tables that are named for the people who work there. My favourite is 'Stian' in the farthest corner, a rickety wooden table with peeling paint, partnered with a comfy bench. Nice service, glorious food, and the occational celeb spotting. Plus they don't charge extra for the soy milk.

Magnuswise: My little guy is crawling everywhere, now. Fast and naugthy, that's the spirit! He just had a nasty ear infection, and his eyes still aren't much better, but other than that, he's doing pretty okay. Here's a picture of him wearing ear muffs for the citywide free music festival last weekend. We were just passing the black metal stage when this was taken. I think he will prefer indie, hee hee.

Sølverwise: I've finished chapter 21. And 22. And I'm halfway there with 23. Man. Endings are amazing! This is so much fun! I've written 2000 words today, which is a new record for me. Peter's paternity leave has almost come to an end, but Eiv and Mum are going to help me watch Magnus so I can keep on writing, if only for a couple of hours every day. Can't falter now! I did the point of view maneuver and am thrilled with it. I spruced up my villains and they're looking pleasingly horrible now (and notice the list of villains in the picture above, Voldemort, Sauron, Tengel from Lionheart brothers, Aeglyss from the Godless world, Hitler. I've tried to list traits that make them scary villains). And do you know, I'm beginning to like 'Sølver' as title.

Grevens Vise:
Sølver
by Tone Almhjell

What do you think? Snowchild sound better to you?

Okay. That's enough. Back to work now.

And another important message!

2010-05-11T20:03:00.003+02:00

Yeah, I have nothing to say. Just wanted to show you my heart band aid (before evil eye infection got out of control).

Visiting with uncle Eiv

2010-05-10T14:22:00.004+02:00

Just hanging, eating junk. It's what guys do on a Sunday.

(It's okay for guys to hug their Mum on a Sunday, too.)

Pancakes, the shakes, and point of view

2010-05-03T11:58:00.011+02:00

Last Thursday was spent in Nighthawk Diner getting the shakes over some very fine pancakes. Not only because the pancakes came with a bottomless cup of coffee, you know, where the waiter keeps showing up with a steaming pot to top off your poison.

And not only (but mostly, I'll admit) because it was the day before Magnus' surgery (which felt very dramatic at the time, but went very well. The surgeon's description of what they had done made my belly churn, and yet Magnus seemed happier, scraped eyelids and open sores notwithstanding, than before the procedure. Which goes to show how much pain he was in before, I guess. What an incredibly brave little robot fighter).

It was also because I suddenly decided to wrestle with all sorts of giant writing monsters, all arising from this question: Is the point of view that I've chosen for the story really the right one?

So far (and we're getting pretty close to the climax, here), I've kept true to a third person, omniscient, semi-limited point of view, where you get the story from Lin's perspective. By semi-limited I mean that the you've admission to Lin's thoughts, but her thoughts only, except for a very few instances where the narrator quietly comments on what she does not do.

LIKE THIS: 'Lin waded out of the huge drift around the empty house and used her mittens to brush snow off her dress and tights while she hurried to the railing at the rim of the hill. From there she had a fair view of Sølveros. Some neighbourhoods remained hidden in the folds of the town, but the broad and busy Main Street was easy to spot, and using that as a guide line, she quickly located Peppersnap Nook and the narrow roof of Theodor's house. She would need to backtrack a few blocks from the statue square. Quite pleased with herself, she ran into the lamplight and down from the hill. She did not look back.'

Here 'She did not look back' is added to give the reader a sense that perhaps Lin should have looked back. Perhaps she missed something important. Perhaps she wasn't alone on the hill. Which of course is not Lin's reflection, or she would have turned around. There are a few other examples of this as well, for instance where Lin and Gwen fail to see boot tracks in the snow outside the window of the Waffle Heart.

So, not entirely true to the limited third, but not so far off. And will that do? Should these suggestions be weeded out, or will that detract from the suspense? Or perhaps I should go further, perhaps I should even include passages that tell the story from other characters' point of view, to broaden the lense (I could show stuff that Lin and Gwen couldn't possibly know) and cut exposition (I could show what happens instead of having characters tell of it afterwards).

LIKE THIS: 'Gwen watched Lin stumble through the gallery door and listened breathlessly as her footsteps raced down the stairwell and into the depths of the Observatory. Then she turned around and faced the bird gliding towards her through the hall, beak open, black claws glinting in the blue mirror light, giant eye locked on her. She snuck a quick peek down to the now quiet archive floor. Yup, still a horribly long way down, plenty long enough to crush a brittle mouse bone or two. - Well, she thought as she jumped onto the banister and threw herself into the air, arms flailing despite herself, - I did always want to try my hand at flying.
INSTEAD OF: '- I waited until I knew you were well on your way, then I threw myself off the balcony to meet Teriko mid-flight.'
See what I mean? It seems tempting, but if I do decide to do this, all sorts of question arise.

1. Which characters should we 'dip into'? I have a few mystery characters, where you don't know if they are good or bad, or what they're really up to, such as Theodor, Trasher and Eleonora. I should obviously (?) stay away from them. But, barring Gwen, these are the most prominent characters in the story, except for Figenschou, the villain, and I don't think I should let you into his head. Or should I? And how about the really, really bad villain, the one who is behind it all? Do you want to know what he is up to? Or is he better glimpsed, hinted at, at the very end, as real evil finds its way into Sølver? Do the characters need to be important to borrow the microphone, or do they just need to be where something important happens?

2. How much rewriting will it require? Is it a good idea to start fidgeting with this now, or do I need to push through to the end before I tear everything apart? The very reason I started thinking about it in the first place, is that it felt as if I could make the end less laden with '- But what happened to you? - Oh, you'll never believe it, first I...' and fuller of juicy bits. And there are so many threads to secure. I'm daunted, and this seems an out. An easy, ill-advised out that will cost too much, perhaps? Or a solution that will make my story richer and better?

3. Will this be too much for the reader? The textbook says to stick with your point-of-view. And yet Laini pulls off multiple POW-shifts with braveur. Rowling does it. Tolkien does it, even slipping into the POW of a random fox in The Lord of the Rings (as Frodo, Sam and Pippin slip out of Hobbiton, if you're wondering). (By the way, nice crowd, huh, L?).

Sigh. The shakes, I tell you. Any input?

The snickety click of a key

2010-04-27T14:05:00.007+02:00

Whew! Finally a snick, after a bout of mental flailing. On Friday I settled down in the library, excpecting to write another 1200 words, as the story has been flowing smoothly for quite some time now. And then bam! Screeching halt.

Suddenly the plot, or rather plots, overwhelmed me. All the loose threads and all the characters and objects and clues just gathered into an unruly, flabby mass that was impossible to gain control of. It was like trying to reach around a five meter wide bean bag.

It was dawning on me, horribly, that an ending cannot be stumbled into. It requires discipline, careful pacing and the clever crafting of excitement and release. It requires that you deal with all the elements you've splashed happily onto the canvas along the way, making them cohere into a subtle, sophisticated, yet clear picture.

How come none of my confidantes exclaimed in delight when I outlined the end for them? Not one 'Cool!', not one excited 'So that's why' or 'Now I see'. Just a polite succession of nods and ohs. It just wasn't good enough, and it truly felt like years of hard work amounted to nothing more than a ramshackle, lacklustre construction. And I've only weeks left of Pan's paternity leave to finish it and make in shine.

Dark thoughts and lousy mood ensued. I took the weekend off, sleeping as much as I could. I changed writing venues. I surfed listlessly. I had tons of coffee, and cookies too. I ditched my computer and trudged around, circling my Inspire, desperately hoping for a revelation of sorts.

Today started off not much better. But then, but then. I stopped by Not for robots, just to read about writing for a bit. Sometimes that helps me focus. And while my mind pretended to read about the relief of a good snick, it really shifted into an actual snick. Like pieces of a puzzle finally fitting perfectly, or a key finally turning in the lock. Of course!

Sure, details must be nailed down. I still don't know exactly how the events unfold. And sure, quite a bit of rewriting is required. I'll have to go back and painstakingly erase or change every carefully dropped hint that no longer applies.

But that's really a small price to pay for liking my story again.

(Gorgeous key by Line).

It's safe to look, future girlfriend

2010-04-21T16:43:00.006+02:00

Remember this, Magnus? How your little bellly ached from the antibiotics in my milk and your neck ached from the KISS and things were kind of screwy?

Yeah. I agree. This is worse. Eye infections suck! Now, your run of the mill eye infection will be annoying, and itch a little and cause some soreness and go away after a brief treatment, or even on its own. It won't cause you to thrash around in in your sleep because of the pain, nor make you look like Rocky after a particularly nasty encounter with Dolph Lundgreen. So. It looks like we've got ourselves a special one.

Enough with the hospital visits and the searing eyedrops and the swelling and the endless turns for the worse already! Every time we have to hold you down to rinse away the blood and pus, my heart breaks a little. So sorry! And worse is yet to come with surgery next week.

I can't show a current photo of you, cause your future girlfriend might hold it against you. But let's not forget, this is what you really look like.

The madness of 32

2010-04-16T11:22:00.005+02:00

Happy birthday, beloved, beloved sister! You've reached 32, a fine age to be, as I recall. It was the year I decided to un-grow up, quit my job, and run off to the big city to become a writer. Let's call it the madness of 32. Following suit?

Wherever you're going, all you have to do is call my name, always.

Shelter of sorts

2010-04-15T15:20:00.005+02:00

It has begun. The final stretch from the woods to the end, and I've only a very blurry idea of where I am going. But yay! It feels amazing to be writing again! It's been a week (sort of, broken up by travels and a visit to the hospital with Magnus, who has a pesky eye infection), and we've eased into a new routine where I spend the morning with the guys, then head for the library to write around ten o'clock.

I've tried different venues, but the one I like best so far is the one above: a lofty perch in Deichmanske, which has good lighting, plenty of air, no shoulder riders and no books in plain view. If I see the titles, I keep imagining content into them instead of concentrating on my own story.

On the way there, there's Rubber Soul, a teeny tiny coffee shop with really nice lattes.

The owner makes his own vanilla syrup with real vanilla pods, and let me tell you: It's good! But even better are the book shelves on the take away cups. Perfect. Only downside is that they close at three, which means I can't stop there and fiddle with today's writing on my way home, as I would have liked to.

I'd say it's going well for a first week (and depending on a pyroclastic cloud of all things, it might last another day yet). 4000 words, a new beginning, plus some solid work on the end. Next week I'm delving deeper, and darker, too.

But it has to be wonderful. As my good friend Leo (9) said: Story? That's easy. You just start off really cool and then make the ending even better.

Homeless again

2010-03-23T20:07:00.008+01:00

I just had the saddest news today. My favourite coffee shop in Oslo, Påfyll, is closing after nine years. And suddenly, too, this Sunday is their last day of business. The reason was the usual one here in Grünerløkka, the landlord got greedy and raised the rent to an impossible level for a small, local café.

Not the first, not the last to go, I'm sure. It's just that I get so attached to the places I choose to make mine. I like to go there alone and sit in the window, just soaking it all in, people, light, seasons, life.

I was heartbroken when I had to say goodbye to my first coffee love, Dromedar, when I moved from Trondheim to Oslo. I had spent every afternoon after work there, and most Saturdays and Sundays, too. I'd sit at a window table, nursing my latte, studying cobble stones and old crooked houses and the pale copper green of the cathedral tower, and I still miss it very much.

In Oslo, I didn't find a place I really liked until I started frequenting the tiny place in Thorvald Meyer street. No cathedral, no cobble stones, no crooked houses, but window seats to a busy street theatre, a very friendly owner, and the best and largest caramel latte around.

Since Magnus arrived (not long after the above photo was taken), I've had very little time to myself, but most of the few minutes I've managed to snatch have been spent at Påfyll. I was going to bring my computer and write there during Pan's paternity leave. I was going to take Magnus as soon as he's able to sit on his own. I was going to get iced latte and sit on the tiny bench outside when the days got hot.

Now where will I go?

Happy birthday, Dad

2010-03-19T10:56:00.004+01:00

You may not be here to receive a hug or a card or a novel. But there are so many places I find you still.

In footsteps about to sound against the slates under the great elm. In shapes that morph and meld under my lids when I go to sleep. In highly expected April snow. In Balthasar's whiskers when he snoozes in the sun. In the tug of a river swirl.

And most certainly in the blue of Magnus' eyes.

Could be worse

2010-03-10T14:32:00.003+01:00

Okay, so I have a cold, the general is still on strike, and the pump and I have a strained relationship. But things could be worse.

I've just danced Magnus to sleep for the first time in months. He's demanding some closeness to make up for the lack of nursing time. Heavy, but very, very nice. I miss him, too.

I'm listening to the radio and my brother, the star, performing live on P3. He's just amazing. <3

Pan might be home early today to give me some sofa time with hankies and tea.

The sun is shining through the branches outside, casting blurred lattice shadows on the softening snow.

Easter is approaching quickly, with sprinkle covered chocolates, all my family around me, spring on the oceanside, possibly the very first nights at Mum's new cabin, and if we get to stop by Almhjell, newborn calves whose ears need to be scratched.

On strike!

2010-03-04T14:25:00.003+01:00

Didn't know babies could go on strike? Well, they can. Magnus doesn't want to drink his milk, not from me, and not really from a bottle either. He just wants fruit and oatmeal, which doesn't cut it for a young, strapping lad growing up to be a superhero.

Sadly, I'm no Elastigirl, so I'm a wee bit frazzled by this turn of events. Is it the little tooth you've got going? Is it the little cold you've come down with? Come on, Magnus, can't we go back to our perfect little routine instead of this mayhem of bottles and pumps and frustration? Sooner rather than later would be fine, thank you.

Staralfur

2010-02-28T14:18:00.002+01:00

Me with my hands under my cheek. A little elf staring at me, running, not moving. That's what it's all about these days. Six months to the day, Magnus. Happy half a birthday.

Hair is overrated!

2010-02-23T17:27:00.003+01:00

Lex Luthor isn't the only one who can rock this look, that's for sure. Too cool for drool.

Stars Hollow snow

2010-02-16T19:43:00.003+01:00

Someone is sprinkling fake snow over Grünerløkka. At least, that's what it looks like. Silver flakes, so light that even the faint eddies of air that you stir up by walking cause them to whirl upwards. When they land in your hair, they stay there like jewelry, without flattening your hair or soaking your coat. On the street they resemble tasteful confetti (now there's a contradiction in terms). If I saw snow like that on tv, I'd smirk and say that those people obviously had no idea what real snow is like.

All right. Next, I want to go to Luke's and have cherry danish.

Clever boys

2010-02-15T12:17:00.005+01:00

As Lin has described on her blog: Magnus can roll from his back to his belly. He has also started dabbling in vowel and consonant combos: gegegege dadada gagaga dede. That's really good, young padawan!

Also, Monzano's album is out today. I've been listening to nothing else since the release concert last Wednesday, and it's really good. 'The Buildings, then the Trees' just blows me away. Clever, clever brother!

The Hide

2010-02-11T22:03:00.011+01:00

(This is the third installment in the tale of Adalee and Rupold. It's more fun if you read The New Leaf and A Pie for Rupold first. The Sunday Scribblings prompt was 'The message').

Adalee could smell the wall before she could see it. It was a stomach churning mix, rotting flesh, curing hides, and strange chemicals, and it made her want to bury her face in the dirt underneath the sweetberry bushes and stay.
But she had come all this way. She had stumbled through labyrinths of corn and tangly sugar snap, waded neck deep across the icy Dirtywash, and dashed past the cabbage patches, painfully aware of how crisp her outline must look against the pale leaves in the moonlight. Before entering the Jewel Garden, she had dug a new hole, in case the old one was watched. And for the the final stretch, she had crawled underneath the sweetberry brambles, carefully avoiding the poison thorns, all the way up the hill until she hit the cold foundation of the Farmer’s barn.
It was a dangerous journey, dangerous to the point of folly, especially with these new snitcher vines weaving through each bush and tree. Somehow, though, she had managed to cross the Farmland without touching one of them, and without being seen. Only once had she heard the thunderous footsteps of the Hound, and they were far off towards the vineyards. And now that she was less than a pit spit away from her goal, she cowered in the brambles like a scared kitten. She could just hear Rupold teasing her.
- Come on, lady fair! Unless you think the loot will come rolling into your basket all by itself.
Right. Come on. Adalee snuck a peek underneath the black napkin she carried draped over her left front paw. Then she crept out into the open, concentrating hard to keep her claws retracted, and turned the corner.

This was the first time she had been this far up, and she couldn’t help staring. In the valley, everything looked so tranquil. Square fields of silvery greys and browns, stiched by dark hedges and tall fences into a vast patchwork. Wisps of white mist waiting to disperse into morning dew. Jewel fruits twinkling back at the moon. And further on, behind the giant border fence, the forest of the Freeground was a safe, sleeping darkness. For a moment, she wished she were one of the keets, so she could hurl herself into the sweet breeze sighing up the hill and fly home. Instead she willed herself to turn the other way, towards the grimy, weathered planks of the barn and its horrible stench.

There was a fresh hide nailed to the wall.

He must have put up quite a fight, for there were scratches and tears everywhere. Something sticky and black flattened the hairs in patches, and the edges were stiff and shrunken. The tail and feet were cut off, and where the eyes should have been, there were two holes that slanted sadly.
- Hi, Rupold, she whispered, - This is for you.
She shook off the napkin, set the gleaming diamond apple pie gingerly on the ground beneth the hide, and stepped back. She had imagined it would be a noble moment. Instead she felt sick. The pie looked garish against the filthy barn wall. The hide was not only gruesome, it was so empty, as if all that was Rupold really had been scraped off. And there was this feeling that kept brushing against the tips of her whiskers. Not just fear, she had been scared silly since before she crossed the border. It was itchier and more urgent than that.
- Sorry, she whimpered, and with her tail tucked between her legs, she turned to flee.

She couldn’t.

The snitcher vine had crept up on her during her clumsy little ceremony. It must have moved so very quietly across the ground to have fooled her, and the loops over her paws didn’t tighten until she tried to move. Now they were like vices. Helplessly, she tipped over. New tendrils slithered through the fur on her back and tail and pinned her down. She thrashed around. All around her, the ground lit up like a Christmas tree, hundreds of tiny, blinking lights, following each other in angular patterns.

A howl sounded at the bottom of the hill. It rose and rose and rose, until it was loud enough to hurt her ears. Then there were tremors in the ground, that grew faster and clearer with each heart beat that shook her rib cage.
This was it then. It was the wall for her, too. Maybe that was what she really wanted when she embarked on this ludicrous pilgrimage. Maybe she had thought she deserved it. But now that the Hound was coming for her, she couldn’t for the life of her remember why.

Adalee bent her head and stared at the sinewy vine wound around her arms. It really was like no plant she had ever seen, flexing with purpose, like a nasty, reedy snake. The leaves continued flashing their tiny alarms, puncturing the night with needles of light. Which was probably the only reason she saw the piece of paper attatched to the vine like a gift tag. It was fastened by what looked like braided hair, and lay face down right in front of her snout.
She tried thrashing around again, but it was impossible to move. Instead, she blew at the tag. It flipped over.
She almost laughed, but it came out a stupid, little mewl. Scrawled across the paper with brownish, crusty ink were two words:
‘Help me’.

I heart Monzano

2010-02-11T16:45:00.007+01:00

My brother's band, Monzano, has a new album out. I love it. The music, a crooked, messy haired Norwegian cousin of Death Cab for Cutie, is beautiful in a way that reminds me of restless car rides in pale summer evenings, and the lyrics are so clever.

My favourite is The Buildings, then the Trees, but I also like The Mannequin Wakes and the first single, Cold Waters.

I know some of you are music lovers (hello, Jim!), so listen here, (and check out the list of influences). If listening liking moves, buy it here (the whole album from Monday). The cover art is really nice, too, though, so you might want to get the tangible version here.

I'm exceptionally proud of you, Eiv. And the sky won't let you down, you can freely float around.

One latte, please!

2010-02-08T09:11:00.001+01:00

Magnus and I at Edvard. We can hang out in cafés now, as long as we have a little help.

Match of the Day: Wily Puppy v. Me!

2010-02-06T22:36:00.008+01:00

Magnus and I met them as we walked along the river: a young boy of perhaps nine and a little Shiba Inu pup. The puppy looked like a tiny, chubby fox and was absolutely adorable. But I've met Shiba Inus before. I know that they are wily, even a little one of only 14 weeks. Therefore, I was not at all surprised that the dog seemed to be walking the boy rather than the other way around. As I passed them, the boy was trying to persuade the pup to come away from a flock of ducks on the river, and he was getting nowhere.

We walked on until the frozen waterfall and turned back before the steep hill. Suddenly I heard a yell and saw the boy waving his arms desperately. And on the path between us was one gleeful puppy, running as fast as his little legs could go, with the leash trailing behind. I knew he'd probably slip past me if I didn't do something radical. Before I had really thought it through, I found myself stretched out in the snow, clutching the leash between frantic fingers. And that was it, the wily puppy's bid for freedom was thoroughly thwarted.

Ha! I won! I could have been a soccer keeper, I kept telling Magnus, brushing snow out of my hair, and I felt pretty good about myself on my way home. At least until my knees started complaining. And my back. And my neck. And...hm. Perhaps it wasn't such a glorious victory after all.

But at least the boy was happy.

M-O-O-N, that spells lemons

2010-02-03T20:40:00.004+01:00

I can't remember a winter with a more gnarley fingered grasp. Most of Norway has been frozen solid since the middle of December. Pushing Magnus's stroller, which normally is a treat on Grünerløkka, has become a nighmare. The sidewalks are mushy with deep, floury snow and the street corners have moats and ramparts of lumpy ice. Giant icicles line the eaves of every building, just waiting to break loose and pierce us. Some days, we don't go outside at all, it's just too cold for a little one.

Today was such a day, the fifth in a row. Though the temperature had mellowed slightly, it had been snowing continously since yesterday morning, and the wind had picked up enough to keep us cooped up in the apartment. Magnus and I were perched on the window sill, gazing out on the flurry of white flakes streaking across the greyness of the city.

And that's when I suddenly had a craving for lemons. Lemon salad dressing, lemon linguine, lemon poppy seed muffins, lemonade. I'd even take a snicket, as long as it was lemony.

I always love lemons in the spring.

She loves me

2010-02-01T10:04:00.004+01:00

She pretends she doesn't, and while I was pregnant, she made it pretty clear that couldn't stand my hormone spiked scent. But now she comes running if she thinks that I am sad (a little cold sniff will do), she watches Magnus for me, and hurries to tell me when he's woken up after a nap, and if any of my laundry ends up on the floor, she curls up in it and goes to sleep. Busted, Pims. You love me.

A pie for Rupold

2010-01-29T21:43:00.005+01:00

(Late, as always, but here's the sequel to my previous Sunday Scribbling, The New Leaf).

The shimmering dust slipped out between her claws like a tiny, sunlit waterfall.
- Yes, Adalee said.
When Cander’s eyes widened, she added: - Yes, it’s true. It’s a diamond crust.
Cander recovered quickly.
- Goodness, she said, leaning closer while she twirled her whiskers between rapid, bony fingers. – I’ve never heard of a pie coated with diamonds before. Won’t it hurt your belly?
- They’re not real diamonds, silly, they’re ground up diamond apple seeds.
- Still pretty, though.
Adalee carefully covered the last of the pastry with the sparkling powder and wiped her paws on her apron.
- Anyway, it’s not for sale.
- Oh, Cander said, then fell silent. Adalee picked up a thin brush, dipped it silvermelt and commenced painting the stem of the crowning cherries. A muted wave of laughter seeped in through the door to the common room. There was quite a crowd every evening these days. Maybe people needed to talk to make sense of things. They even had a name for the horrid little alarms leaves now. Snitcher vine. Cute.
- That’s a shame. I bet it’s worth a fortune. I think it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever made, Cander said at last. Adalee fixed the cherries to the top of the pie with a spot of burnished caramel and stepped back. It was, at that. A perfect, pale crust with just the right golden blush at the edges. Sweet and tart fruit within. And around the plump, blood red cherries, a cover of diamond grains sparkling demurely like fresh, cold snow. Pretty? Pretty was not the right word. The pie looked like a star plucked out of the night sky.
- I bet Odar will want you to make more, then. Yesterday, he had to kick out a nasty piracat who threw a fit when there wasn’t any diamond apple pie. Said he’d come all the way from Broken and wouldn’t leave without. Odar wouldn’t have it and fetched his great mallet. But I bet he’ll want you to make more.
- There won’t be any more diamond apple pies. Not after this one.
- But Adalee…
- I only had the one apple.
And how she wished never had turned back to pick it up. It was only one apple, forgotten in the middle of the path in the middle of the skirmish, not worth risking her life for. But it seemed such a waste. She didn’t know that there was an opening in the fence right there, nor that the moonlight was bright enough to see across the yard. Adalee eased the pie onto a delicate silver plate. Odar’s finest. He would be furious when he heard she’d taken it, but that didn’t matter much.
- I’m going out, she said and untied her apron. She felt Cander’s eyes on her back as she stepped through the kitchen door and out into the crisp autumn dark.
The streets were empty as she snuck toward the huge, overgrown fence that separated the Freeground from the Farm. Only one apple, only one pie, and only one looter headed for the Jewel Gardens, for the house on the hill and the barn behind it, and the lonely, scruffy shape nailed to its wall.
- Yes, she whispered softly, as if speaking to the softly gleaming masterpiece. – That’s the word they’re all dying to hear, isn’t it. Is it true, is it true, did you really see it, is your heart broken now? Well. Never mind them. But you did ask me if I would save you some pie if you saved me first, Rupold.
She covered the pie with a piece of dark cloth and bent down to slip through a hole in the fence.
- And I think we both know the answer to that.

What it takes to make a girl happy

2010-01-29T19:59:00.007+01:00

A window seat at Påfyll.

Mittens, because the temperature just dropped to -10 again. Not that I like being very cold, but the snow is fresh and clean after this morning's flake parade, and on my way there it creaked under my boots. I love that sound.

Caramel latte from Påfyll, not in a take away cup, and chocolate fudge cake, all for a mere 18 kroner since I had a full bonus card.

No one to talk to, except a fantasy novel (Fall of Thanes by Brian Ruckley, which so far is okay, except for the occational wordage).

The chickadee bookmark Lin gave me.

An hour all to myself.

The cutest boys in the universe waiting at home.

And just then, it went from simple things, to a tall order.

On my way home, I stopped by a bookstore and got two new board books for Magnus. We've added a short story time to our evening routine. He has no idea what I'm saying, of course, but he seems to enjoy the cadence of my reading voice.

Then I went to Food Story for some free tasting in their little deli (white raspberry chocolate, spicy nuts, some excellent cheddar, Italian sausage, and chocolate covered coffee beans today), and to pick up some Kusmi chai tea - possibly the nicest tea in the world. And I'm having a cup right now.

So: happy.

Five month padawan

2010-01-28T09:55:00.003+01:00

Magnus is five months old today, and the midi-chlorian count is off the charts. This past few weeks he has added the following to his repertoire:

1. Bedtime! He now goes to bed at 19.45, and with a comforting parent hand on his chest and a lullaby or two, he is out by eight o'clock most nights. He wakes up only once during the night to nurse and then sleeps until eight in the morning. I suddenly feel human again.

2. Gulping down a whole portion of corn porridge in the evening. He loves it and tries to swallow the entire spoon when we're too slow with the serving.

3. Sorting his statements into vowels and consonants. It's either aoaoaoae or bptrrpt.

4. Sitting and standing. I try to limit it, but he wants to come up, up, up!

5. Screaming with laughter, or glee, or just to drive Pims crazy. She thinks he's in pain and comes running full of anguish and worry. - The baby, she says, and looks into the bassinet with gigantic eyes. - I think he's in trouble! - Nah. He's just practising his dinosaur act.

6. Ski jumping in Holmenkollen, but no telemark landing as of yet.

The jury is back

2010-01-13T09:46:00.005+01:00

After all your kind input on the matter of Sølverdal v. Sølveros, I've decided that the name should be:

SØLVER

Short and simple, and in the spirit of Coco Chanel (who otherwise has nothing to do with my world, I promise). I decided Sølver had momentum enough on its own. It doesn't translate elegantly into English, perhaps, but I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

And then everything flows effortlessly. The valley becomes Sølverdal, the town becomes Sølveros, and the river becomes Sølverelv. The latter is slightly unconventional, since a valley is usually named after the river that runs through it (as in Surna - Surnadal), but that's fine with me.

So Sølver it is, the realm of moonlit frost.

On an entirely different note: the photo is, as usual, by Lin, who is just getting better and better and better at this. Thank you for letting me use your art on my blog, sis.

Confessions of a nerdy mom

2010-01-12T21:11:00.003+01:00

Here are some of the things I find myself saying to Magnus every day. Nerdy points if you catch the reference.

1. Magnus. I am your mother.

2. And I thought this smelled bad on the outside. (Usually when changing diapers).

3. What say you, young Atreju?

4. It is by will alone I set my b%%% in motion. (Usually when Magnus wakes up twenty minutes after I've gone to bed)

5. You're a daikini baby!

The new leaf

2010-01-07T22:19:00.015+01:00

The diamond apple dangled at the very tip of the branch, spikes glinting dangerously along its hard edges. Rupold plucked it unceremoniously and bit into it without so much as looking.
- Told you they’d be ripe, he grinned.
Adalee sqinted up at him from the bottom of the ladder and hissed.
- Rupold of Rodentree, it’s a marvel you’ve still got teeth and gums, she whispered.
- Well, said Rupold, licking his cleft lips to savour the clear sweetness of the fruit, - I could take it home and peel it first. And I could mash it and bake it into a pie, to make absolutely sure there were no splinters left…ouch!
He spat out a broken spike, along with tiny droplets of blood that looked inky in the moonlight, and smiled sheepishly.
- But where’s the fun in that?
- Fun? There’s really nothing funny about diamond apples, nor about sneaking into the house gardens. If the Farmer catches us here, we’re done for. He’ll have our hides for sure. I don’t know how I keep letting you talk me into this.
- Oh, come on. People travel from all over Apfeld to taste your diamond apple pie, and you love it. If it weren’t for these little expeditions, you wouldn’t be famous, and Odar would probably never have hired you, neither. You’d just be a village cook, serving up stew to smugglers and piracats. So just hand me that basket and wait prettily, lady fair.
- Just keep your voice down, said Adalee, but she did as she was told and kept quiet as Rupold picked the sharp fruit into the padded wicker basket. He was right, after all. Diamond apple pie was her specialty, her most secret and wonderful recipe, and her life would not be the same without it. If this was the only way to acquire the main ingredient, so be it. Besides, all food in all of Apfeld came with a certain risk. It must be stolen out of the Farmer’s fields and gardens and orchards, where the Farmer could show up with His deadly wooden club anytime. She just wished she could stay away from His most prized crop, was all.
She cast a glance behind her, at the great main house looming on the hill. It was dark except for the fluorescent light above the main entrance, but that meant nothing. He might be there even so, watching His gardens from behind the curtains, ready to chase after them in a heart beat.
- Hurry, she whispered, clutching the ladder as hard as she could.
- Yeah, yeah, I’ll just get a couple more, and then…Hey, what’s this?
There was a small flash among the branches, and Rupold fell suddenly silent. Adalee craned her neck to see what he was up to, but he wasn’t moving.
- What’s going on, she breathed, heart racing, but Rupold didn’t answer. She cast about, whiskers shaking, pricking her ears. And then she heard them. Footsteps, fast ones, on the hill.
Rupold came flying out of the tree, hitting the ground hard. The wicker basket rolled off to one side and spilled a few of the glimmering apples, and without thinking she bent down to retrieve the precious loot. But Rupold yanked hard at her scruff, pulling her to her feet.
- Flee, he all but wailed in her ear, and then he darted off wildly between the trees. Adalee followed as soon as she could get her feet to obey. They felt like cold water coursed through them, weak and unstable, but she managed to stay on Rupold’s tail while they crashed and stumbled through the dark gardens as if their fur were on fire.
Something followed with thunderous steps that kept coming closer, no matter how many short cuts Rupold knew between the rows of fruit trees. The Farmer was fast, she knew, but He wasn’t supposed to able to outrun two petlings, not when they weren’t hampered by loot. But somehow He was gaining on them anyway. Any second now, He would catch them, would strike them from behind, and then that would be it. He would skin them and hang their hide on the barn to make an example, just like He did with that poor caravan knave last year. She ran for her life, breath aching in her throat and tears blurring her vision.
- Here, Rupold suddenly hissed, and dove underneath the skirt of one of the many hedges that ran through the grounds. She threw herself to the ground and tumbled after him into a shallow pit beneath the branches, just in time. Something raced past them in the lane, just inches from her snout. Her eyes bulged as she watched its claws flash by right in front of her, and she had to bite her paw to keep still.
- What was that, she whimpered when the footsteps had faded into the distance. - Rupold, those claws were metal!
- I don’t know, Rupold said, - But it came when I touched this.
He opened his clutched hand. A small silver leaf with serrated edges lay in his palm, visible in the darkness of the brambles because of minute blinking lights that ran across its surface, chasing each other in jerky, random patterns.
Adalee swallowed.
- Is it real? It doesn’t look…right, she said and leaned forward to sniff it. One of her whiskers touched its surface, and it gave a red flash. Somewhere in the distance there was a horrible sound, like a howl turned into a siren.
- Adalee, Rupold croaked, and it made Adalee's fur stand on end to hear his voice so laced with fear. - I think the Farmer has a new dog.

(This is my third Sunday Scribblings entry. Apologies for the length of the text.)

Fox in the snow

2010-01-06T12:18:00.010+01:00

It is so very bitterly cold outside! Absolutely all of Norway is covered in snow, and last night the temperature dropped to minus 20 degrees celsius in Oslo. Magnus and I are besieged in the apartment, keeping the cold at bay with the woodstove and the fireplace and electrical ovens and candles, and two very drowsy cats.

Yesterday we watched a movie together, Le renard and l'enfant, about a girl and the fox she befriends. It was beautiful and blissfully un-disneyfied, and I quite liked it. But Pims! She loved it! She sat in front of the tv, staring intently with her ears perked up for hours.

Now, if I believed in reincarnation, I'd say she had been a fox in a previous life, a very cold fox struggling to survive in the snow and chill, as I'm sure all foxes in the northern hemisphere are doing this very moment, and I hope they make it. But not all do. Perhaps she didn't. Perhaps she had been so brave that she was reborn as an indoor cat with heaps of snacks and food at the ready and nothing to do all winter but toast her paws in front of the woodstove.

And yet, when the forest and the birdsong and the mountains suddenly interrupted her nap, she could not help but long for them, and the sting of frost in her chest as she leapt between branches and chased across fields, and the freedom she once had. Yes, that's what I'd say. If I believed in reincarnation.

The Emperor of Mondays

2010-01-01T21:36:00.005+01:00

A little phrase that Laini coined on her blog, ever so casually, as if unaware that she was writing music. But it's true. Mondays are wonderful if you live to write and write to live, fresh and clean and full of chapters in the making. And New Years is even fresher, cleaner and fuller, The Emperor of Mondays, as it were. What do you say we spend it speaking first words and finishing first endings? Have a happy one!

Velocity kid

2009-12-30T13:46:00.004+01:00

It's the Incredible Speedy Magnus! From this:

to this:

in only four months.

Magnus now masters:

Eating a teaspoonful of porridge in the evenings. Yum!
Kicking off his socks in three seconds flat.
Lots of different noises, mmms and aaahs and gargles and squeals in an eloquent mix.
Keeping his head steady when lifted.
Laughing at his mirror self.
Laughing harder at his uncle Eiv.
Laughing even harder when someone says 'bæsj' (poo). Already?
Charming every female in any given social setting. Flight attendants are a particular favourite.
Falling asleep - but only if placed between mum and dad in their bed in the wee hours.

Yearbook 2009 II

2009-12-27T13:48:00.004+01:00

Most likely to yank your heart out of your chest before you even know what hit you:

Magnus

who is also Most likely to become a spinning instructor, Most likely to double in size and Most likely to be kissed a million times in the coming year.

A question of Sølver

2009-12-14T16:41:00.008+01:00

"Lin opened her eyes to a landscape of desolate winter mountains, where a pale, full moon painted the snow silver and stern peaks rose into the sky. Gwen touched her shoulder lightly, and Lin turned around. She found herself at the top of a steep hill, gazing down on a deep, shimmering valley of hillocks and forestclad slopes. A naked, frozen river ran through it like a steel ribbon, and at the end of the ribbon twinkled the lights of a town enclosed by snowladen trees on three sides and a lake of cold, blue ice on the fourth.
- Well, I do see why you call it..."

What?

I've pondered and mulled for weeks on end and not made up my mind. So I thought I'd ask you! Which of these three should be the name of the realm where Snowchild takes place: Sølveros, Sølverdal, or Sølverheim?

I suppose for those of you who don't speak Norwegian, it might be hard to choose. Sølver means silver, but with a slight twist leaning towards *of silver* or *silvery*. Sølveros means the estuary of the river Sølver, Sølverdal means Sølver Valley, while Sølverheim means Home of Silver. All three suffixes are common in place names in Norway, like Røros, Sunndal, Trondheim.

Now, there is a river and there is a valley, so they're all logical enough. But if you can, just listen for magic and music in the name (if any). Which magical realm would you like to go to?

2009 Yearbook

2009-12-13T11:17:00.007+01:00

Most likely to pick your heart out of your pocket without you even noticing:

Gwendolen

It's been almost a year since the kittens showed up in our lives, on Christmas Eve of all nights. I wonder how Gwen is. Is she still as smart? Still as agile? Still as mischievous and charmingly crooked in the face? I thought I had other favourites among the kittens, but it turned out, when the time came to send them off to new homes, the only time I really cried afterwards was when I closed the door behind cheeky, little Gwen, knowing that I would probably never see her again.

Miss you, little rascal!

Yes, Copenhagen is right that way

2009-12-10T10:36:00.003+01:00

Barack Obama is in town to receive his peace prize. Here he is with the Prime Minister, probably pointing towards my house. Or could it be Copenhagen?

(The image is by scanpix, and I'm hoping they won't charge me for using it.)

Magnus and I were Christmas shopping downtown yesterday, and outside Grand Hotel, we were interviewed by Italian television. They seemed very disappointed in my answers. Yes, I think he deserves the prize. No, I'm not angry that he's spending so few hours in Oslo, because I agree: he should get to Copenhagen as quickly as possible.

But if he wanted to stop by Marselis, I've got good chai tea.

Tree, cat, and disaster waiting to happen

2009-12-06T18:02:00.003+01:00

No real tree this year, and my ornaments must spend this season snoozing in their box. But that just makes it even more fun next year, little ones, I promise. In lieu of a pretty green tree, Peter got some larch branches from the garden in Sandvika. Now let's see how long Pims is going to leave them up there. I anticipate a huge crash in the middle of the night. Only good thing is, I'll be up already anyway.

UPDATE: I was going to take a picture of the evidence next morning, but forgot. But Bambi had had her ear chewed and two of the branches were snapped. But other than that: smooth, Pims, very smooth.

Merry Christmas, Magnus Brown

2009-12-05T17:35:00.002+01:00

Cute, no? A slightly different advent this year, with no time for gingerbread cookies and no time for a full social calendar. But it's nice nonetheless. I'm almost done with the Christmas shopping, too.

Honest scrap

2009-12-02T21:42:00.005+01:00

Yay, I got an award from Catherine. Thanks, dear!

Okay, so I'm supposed to tell ten honest things about myself. Hm. I'll try to make them things not everybody knows already:

1. When energetic, I like to jump around. (It's been a while, I can tell you.)

2. It doesn't look too good, though, since I'm not particularly graceful. As a soccer player, I was best at the running part, or the anticipation of the play part, or really any part not actually involving the ball. (Oh yes, I used to play soccer. I practiced three hours every day during the last year of high school. Sigh. Hours I'm never getting back.)

4. But hey, during that time, I also made out with a world famous soccer player.

5. My two favourite kinds of movie are Christmas movies and disaster movies. Now if they could only replace the little plane in 2012 with Santa's sleigh...

6. I can't stand adrenaline kicks. They hurt.

7. I think I'm better at cooking than I actually am. I also cannot under any circumstances be kissed when I cook, brain overload!

8. I'm freakishly fond of my sister and brother. Okay, that one was not new.

9. I'm a grammar bully and privately sneer at mistakes in people's facebook status, then feel bad for being such a snob.

10. I talk to my father's photo sometimes.

Bedtime battle

2009-12-01T12:28:00.004+01:00

Guess who prevailed this night... Okay, so Magnus isn't ready for bedtime at eight just yet, no matter what the books say. He wins. For now.

(Sorry for the blurry pic, but at that point, I actually thought it was because of my own sleep deprived eyes.)

Three months along

2009-11-28T23:00:00.004+01:00

Magnus is good at:

1. Squealing! Loudly. Very.
2. Laughing.
3. Grabbing plushies from his chest and shoving them in his mouth.
4. Saying gooooooo.
5. Mysteriously waking up four minutes after falling asleep at night. He then proceeds to drive his parents crazy until they cave and let him come back into the living room. Resourceful.

Update: And at three months and three days, it's becoming increasingly obvious that Magnus is good at eating, too. 7.1 kilos. Wow. I'll have the underarms of Popeye pretty soon.

Sometimes it's quiet..

2009-11-20T17:51:00.001+01:00

But not often.

Tooting Bec, I'm glad you're home!

2009-11-19T15:33:00.005+01:00

Lin is on her way back from London. She's been doing all sorts of cool things that kiddoless people get to do, traipsing around fancy shops, eating at nice restaurants, going to concerts, holding hands with boyfriend in autumn parks, smooching in cozy hotel rooms. While I have been nursing and not getting any sleep. I will celebrate the return of the world's very best sister to Grünerløkka with the five sillyest sounding stops on the London Underground:

5. Tufnell Park
4. Waterloo
3. Totteridge
2. Goodge Street

and the winner is:

1. Tooting Bec

Which you can also use as a funny profanity if you like.

Magnus Robot Fighter

2009-11-12T16:30:00.003+01:00

Remember how pulpy sci-fi stories sometimes end with the wail 'Nooooooo! I slept too long!'?

Magnus got this too cool little onesie from Laini and Jim long before he was born, in honour of his name. Or actually, what they hoped would be Magnus' name, since Jim loves the comic book Magnus Robot Fighter. Which is why the onesie has a robot on the chest. Which is one of the many little things that made us choose Magnus in the end.

The label says 3-6 months, and now that Magnus is 11 weeks old, I thought I'd fetch it out of the closet. And it turns out that Noooo! I waited too long! It just barely fits!

Guess I forgot that Magnus also means big. He is now 6480 grams and 64 centimeters and ready to take on every evil robot in Oslo.

Songs of autumn

2009-11-04T15:05:00.004+01:00

I got tagged by sweet'n'cool Stian. So here are five songs shaping this autumn. (It's supposed to be seven, but since my head is only on 40 percent capacity due to almost no sleep last night, five will have to do.)

1. Yankee Bayonet, The Decemberists. Old song, of course, I have practically nothing new in my life except Magnus these days. But I adore it, and so does he. If he's wailing, I put it on and do the oh-oh part while we dance around, and it always quiets him down. Besides, I like the word Manassas.

2. Someone like you, David Wanderwelde. This is my favourite song on the mixtape Stian made of his favourite songs from last year. Everything could be for the last time, you know.

3. I sing I swim, Seabear. I don't how many times I've listened to this album, which Lin have me for my birthday. Hard to pick a favourite. There's the amazing Owl Waltz, and so many others. But this is nice. Such cozy beauty, straight from Iceland.

4. Stompin' at the Savoy, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. No autumn without my favourite cookie jazz album, Ella and Louis Again, and this is Magnus' preferred song. He likes it when I sing along with Ella's do be do-part.

5. Grevens Vise. Now this is a little presumptious, because I wrote the lyrics and some of the music myself. (The rest came from Eiv, the star.) But it's by far the song I've sung the most these past few weeks, to try to coax my darling Magnus back to sleep at night. It's a song from my story, a coded version of the storyline, in fact. The lyrics are rather scary, but he doesn't know that. He'll grow up thinking that it's perfectly normal for a young boy to give away his heart for someone to eat, and for secret keys to be carried in his hand, and to be tied down by pale, invisible chains. So sleep tight, little one!

By the way, why am I not sleeping instead of blogging? Silly me.