The snickety click of a key

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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!

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

Stars Hollow snow

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

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

(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

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!

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!

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

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

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

(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

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.