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.

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.