Balthasar and me, shopping malfunction

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*

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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!

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!

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...

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!

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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