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.

Marcelius

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!

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.

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.