Hello there. I'm grammar girl.

Looking at this photo, I realise three things:

1. I could use a haircut.

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

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

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

The very nimble snow watchers

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

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

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

Small step for a mini-man

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

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

Yet somehow, this moment managed to sneak in:



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

Kissing in the lost square

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

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

Choices, choices

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

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!

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

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

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

'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

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.

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

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

Eat Girl

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

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.

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!

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

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

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?