Second star to the left, now

My Pan is taking me away, all fairy dusted and sparkly. First ten days of this:



And then, would you believe it, ten days of this:



If it seems extravagant for a struggling wannabe writer who thinks carefully before buying a t-shirt, it is. But the trip is a wedding present, so I might as well not think about how many months of uninterrupted writing the money would buy me, and enjoy instead.

Don't worry, Pims won't be left to fend for herself, my favourite brother is staying here with her. Unless she actually manages to sneak into my luggage, she's been trying all day.

Flipflops: check! Bikinis: check! Pretty dresses: check! Fluffy darling with sorrowful eyes: che...no, wait. Sorry, sweetie. You can watch over Oslo for me.

See you later, darlings!

Oslo overdoes it

28 degrees, and counting.

Oslo, come on! I get that it's a nice break from being freezing and grey, but do you really have to pile it on like this? I mean, it's supposed to get hotter and hotter all week. Going to California and Fiji will be a nice, cool break.

It is, I admit, lovely to doze in the shade of some trees, with an ice latte or ice cream. But our apartment faces south, has huge windows and it's like an oven. And I don't even have thick, white fur.

Poor Pimsika hides under the bed and blames me ferociously. Her eyes just scream 'Stupid manny'!

Speaking of which: I've finished Blackbringer, and Laini, I'm floored.

I thought I might be able to keep up, but you sped ahead with the vanishing of the little village (Sleepers there were none! Such music!), and then with Magpie's first visit to the Moonlit Gardens, you were suddenly a speck on the horizon. I love your world and I love your story threads and I love your love story. You arrange scenes and currents just to my taste (Kipepeo. Yes, that's epic), and I cried at the end.

Something to reach for!

Climbing thorny hegdes

My mind has been running wild where it should be trotting steadily. Horses, who by the way turn out to be very fond of painted roses and chandeliers, know that if you break the canter and gallop too many times, you'll get disqualified.

I had completed 15 chapters when I realised that the the beginning and the middle no longer told the same story, not in terms of gravity, mood, scope. So I started rewriting.

And now I've only four more chapters to update before I can truly move on. I ought to finish chapter 12 before Peter Pan and I head for the second star to the left in ten days. So why is it so hard to get on with it?

The need to look beyond chapter 15 again hasn't surfaced until now, but suddenly my thoughts are seething with thorny ice palisades, fortunes told, white falcons and crushed, spilled souls. Maybe it's because I've reached the parts that prompted the rewrite in the first place. They fit better, and so I've no patience for them.

It's like insisting on climbing the thorny hedge when I should wait until I reach the gate. Especially when I know the gate is open.

Joydivision

This is what I do for fun! Now imagine indie hits and a packed dance floor.

Snick!

Someone just had an epiphany.



Yup, chapter ten all done, eleven in progress.

Children, let's fly!

My writing music today is Sigur Ros. And I wanted to tell/remind you of this video they made.

It transfixes me.

It is about an ever growing group of children travelling through barren, deserted lands. They're clad in dirty dresses and little drummer boy uniforms and rough animal furs, and they hurry, hurry, hurry.

I think it's a longing for the sea that drives them, but I can never decide if they join out of desperation or exhilaration.

Secret kisses, fox skins, giant boulders, lava vapours!

In a golden, windswept landscape they race, no charge wildly, up a steep hill. And as they reach the top, you realise that beyond the cliff edge there is nothing except a long, deadly drop and the sea.

But they just storm on, over the edge..

And they fly! Dreamily, loftily, bravely over the waves. It takes my breath away.

Everyone, let's be dreamy, lofty, brave. It's a good day for it!

Just a little snick? Please?

I promised myself I would finish chapter 10 this week. There's still two hours left. Pleeeenty of time.

Besides I'm actually very nearly done, I like the beginning and the ending and the middle, too, I just need a final little snick and that's it.

Only problem is that I had way too much wine yesterday, and I'm tired and hung over, and really only want to curl up on the sofa and have chocolate by osmosis.

And the snick simply refuses to snick.

Make that one hour and fifty minutes.

Meanwhile Peter and Pims (and wasn't she just gorgeous at five months?) are playing hide-and-seek-a-boo. He hides, and she sniffs him out with a gleeful squeal. Funny little cat.

Update: 48 minutes left, and no snick forthcoming.

Well. Monday is fine, too.

How scary is too scary?

Line is in Teodor's library, where something very unfortunate is about to happen. And I'm not even talking about the letter she has just dropped as if it were on fire.

I won't spoil the read for you later. I can only say that I frightened myself a bit. But I wonder. Where should I draw the line when it comes to scary in a young adult story? Or children's story?

Could there be...blood coming out of someone's ears? Drownings? People scared out of their wits? A lobotomy device?

I think I'll just have to let the story flow where it wants to, and be careful not to elaborate unduly. Or what do you think?

The heart of all my stories

This is Almhjell in Sunndalen, the farm where my father grew up, and where my grandmother lived until recently. It's hard to describe how beautiful it is, but I'll try.

Almhjell nestles at the foot of a mountain, one of many that rise like towers, pushing the sky to soaring heights above the valley. Waterfalls fling themselves off cliffs, dissolving into misty, sparkling sprays before gathering to feed the green, thundering river. White blossoms dot the sweet cherry and apple trees, and white is also the colour of the long wooden house where my grandmother used to peek through the windows at owls and cats and cows.

Behind the red barn there is a brook called the Summerchild that skips and splashes down from the mountains. I've listened to its tall tales and strange rumours ever since I was a summer child myself.

And then there is the elm, the enormous tree of my family name, which stretches its mossy trunk and heavy branches far above the roof of the long house. No one knows how far its roots have dug.

The farm now belongs to my uncle, and it's full of everyday life and litter: coughing tractors, scattered tools, tulips trampled by kids.

But underneath that it is also the heart of every story I've ever dreamed up, and the home of Line and Niklas.

And more, sharper, better photos here.

Ah, yes..

I'd like to call this photo: Beach towel, fjord and sailboat, or Caving in.

Music to trespass by

In front of me I have an impossible scene. That is, if I lift my eyes from the screen, and it's so hard not to, I have a scene in front of me that is impossible for writing. Our kitchen windows are huge, and outside it's ridiculously sunny and leafy and warm. My spire is all but obscured by trees now. Quite the metaphor.

This is where I turn to my trusty friend, who has helped me dive into other worlds before, especially when we've arranged to play roleplaying games in the summer. Music.

Film scores are perfect, because they are made to conjure up moods without dominating. For sad romance: Braveheart. For sun drenched happiness: Much ado about nothing. Downright scary: Alien 3. Humid forests: The Mission. Riding, waves or horses: Dances with Wolves. Tinted, but not completely coloured by the stories they belong to.

Today Line is trespassing. Teodor didn't answer the door, and now she has snuck into his library to see if she can find any clues as to why Isvan would be desperate for a certain enchanted axe. So far she has found a tepid cup of tea, a burning candle, some coats in a bundle on the floor. I haven't decided if she will discover the letter from Heidelsneck with the plans for the lobotomy device. But I think she might. And then Balthasars last desperate diary entries. And then darkness will fall from above.

I didn't have any music perfect for that, Alien 3 isn't subtle enough. So I ended up with The Piano. It's haunting and lilting, really better for wandering bleak moors, but it will have to do. Windows? What windows?

(or I could look up instead, also very helpful)

A handbag blunder

Well, hello Mrs. Handbag! I didn't mean to leave you hanging. I really didn't. But, hey, you look happy anyway. Yes?

Ok, so you're not answering. That isn't an ironic smile, is it? Because I don't know very many handbags, so I feel a little unsure about this.

Uh, I don't know how to say this, but you've got something on your lip, in the corner of your mouth. No, to the right. My right. Oh, it's stuck, isn't it! It's a zipper thingy! I'm very sorry, I didn't mean...You know what, it looks fine. Barely noticable. I promise. So much smaller than that pouch hanging from your ear. Uh. Which is of course very, very small. Tiny, in fact. Hardly there.

Still not talking, eh? Ok. I'm going to bed now. And, erm, hang in there.

Summeriness

It's been a wonderful weekend, with walks along the river, which is bumbling and rumbling with snow melting waters, and up verdant, little hills under white blossoms (well, all right, the walking was done on narrow asphalt streets, but everything else was green and breathing and almost done unfurling).

We had lots of good food, my chicky chick chickpeas, Mum's bacalao, a plankful of tapas at Delicatessen, which is a vibrant, noisy, happy place with excellent food near the fairytale bridge. And lots and lots of red wine!

We wore little floaty dresses and white blouses and shimmery scarves, and squinted at the sun, and drank our lattes cold with sprinkled cocoa on top.

It is, I admit, rather hard to shut all this summeriness out and immerse myself in frost and darkness, so this is not the ideal time for writing a Christmas story. Mustn't allow myself to lose steam!



Photo of Mum&me by Line, as are really all photos that look nice in this blog.

C'mon! Make my day!

Three things that are virtually impossible to achieve when you are in a hurry:

1. A great updo

2. A thick and perfect merengue frosting

3. Making the beds in the presence of Pimsika, who has now claimed the title of World's Premier Rascal Ballerina Sheet Rumpler and Furifier.

She must have competed for China, because I'm quite sure she spoke chinese in the process.

It's a good thing that the person on the receiving end of the rumpled furry bed deal is Mum, who loves cats almost as much as I do. I'm so excited that she's coming to visit!

On the lookout

The rascal ballerina spies on the world from my lap.

Her enemies, who must be glared at and kept under supervision at all times, are: Skateboarders, kids in strollers, cars, especially trucks, and people listening to music while jogging. I know, they are a suspicious lot, aren't they!

And of course any and all bugs, which meet their doom if they stray close enough. Be warned, bumble bees!

Yup, those are my pajama bottoms. I have real clothes on my upper body, but people on the street really can't see the bottoms. So there.

And I have to show you how green everything is all of a sudden:

Starcrossed

There is a Niklas in Line's life.

He is inspired by: Peter, and Pan, too, the brothers Lejonhjärta, my cousin Erik, Will, Abbe, Pippin, Leonard Whiting, a boy or two I knew when I was 11, a spanish movie I can't remember the name of, but which I saw when I was rather young, about a boy who loved a beautiful girl and travelled across the country just to see her again.

Line has no idea, but she is in for heartache.

What do you do when you realise that you don't just like your best friend anymore, you think the sunlight is beautiful in his hair? That's right. You pretend nothing has changed.

And what do you do if you simultaneously must not, cannot leave childhood behind? There is no answer to that one.

When we leave them, they'll be fourteen. It will be after Lammas Eve.

Chapter nine finished!

It was a hard one, because it was all new stuff: new people, new action, new type of magic, new setting. But I think I like it. If I could only think of a title!

Mrs. Zarka turned out to be an absolute weirdo, not unlike good, old Professor Balthazar, if anyone remembers him. Only not as nice. And her poor assistant was actually very much like Line's favourite teddybear, who still hangs around not very far from her bed. He has eyes that make him look somewhere between terrified and flabbergasted at all times, but Line says he's really quite mellow. Don't suppose he ever went to the Inners.

Now for some detective work of the pilfering, sneaky sort.

The official Line tribute cupcake

Forgot to tell you what I actually ended up making for Line's party: this little sweeetheart.

Gingerbread cake: moist and spiced, only I replaced most of the ground ginger with cardamom, since that was the flavour of the syrup we both adored in our latte when we used to spend every afternoon at Dromedar.

Pear, maple and cardamom filling: There had to be a filling because of the perfect blueberry filled little cakes we also used to have at Dromedar, especially when they where fresh out of the oven. They baked them right there in the tiny, tiny café, you know, making it possible to feel you were having cake even if you were only smelling it. Cake by proxy. I chose pear for the nice gingerbread cake we've made a couple of times now, maple for all the wonderful thanksgiving dinners we've cooked up together, and then the cardamom again. Did you know the baristas at Dromedar sometimes invented cardamom drinks just for Line and me? We loved it that much (and they us). I added the filling by carving off little domes and pinching out some of the warm cake, spooning in some of the soft pears and replacing the top.

Cream cheese and cardamom frosting: to serve as a sharper foil for the spicy cake and the sweet filling. I piped it on using a twirly nozzle, and threw some heart shaped sprinkles on top, because I love my sister.

And I miss Dromedar!

The mother of all nightmares

This morning I had the most horrible dream. There was a tsunami, a plane crash, a terrible lightning storm that targeted poor syncronized swimmers on the fjord and left them smoking and burning in their melting dry suits, and an explosion in Mum&Dad's house. In the last, frantic minutes I tried desperately to get everyone I loved out of the house before it blew up, and I couldn't get people to understand the urgency.

Except for Line, of course, she always understands everything. Finally, I had to run outside, where we stood, hugging eachother. But just as the windows lit up with fire, they came tumbling out the door: Peter, Eivind, Mum, Kjeld, a few of the swimmers that we had managed to save.

But not Dad! He had, as always, gone to the bathroom at the last minute. We howled, and incredibly, he answered. We managed to pull him out through the broken window, and he was fine.

And then the cat meowed. She must still be in there! But no, she was standing outside the bedroom door. I'm pretty sure she knew I was having a bad dream and wanted to help. I let her in, and she jumped onto the bed and put her paws on the panic knot in my stomach and kneaded it until it went away, and purred reassuringly. Then she curled up on my pillow, putting her chin on my cheek, warding off any sequels.

See, I don't really mind the hairs, little cat. Thanks.

Unfurling

I like this word. The thought of something curled up and tiny opening and stretching and breathing really lifts my spirit. There is much of it going on these days, too.

Petals and leaves are doing most of it, and it's a wonder every year. How could I stand those long months of shivering, naked trees? How could they?

My story is also unfurling, albeit at a painfully slow rate. I have spent some time retracing the snowchild's footsteps. It's a horrible feeling when the main plot slips through your mind's fingers every time you try to grasp it.

But I have you now, young man, and I know where you've been and why, and I'm not letting you sneak off again.

Meanwhile, a certain rascal ballerina is unfur-ing. There isn't a surface in our home that isn't graced by a few silky, white strands of hair. I have white tufts of fur on all my clothes and in my tea and (bizarrely) in my hair. So sweet of you to share, little one!

(Using this photo is cheating a little, I admit. It was taken in Berkeley two years ago. But just you wait. Schous Plass will be bursting with pink flowers pretty soon.)