Just opened Forfattarkurs.se – a website in Swedish where I’ve collected my distance classes in creative writing. Will also blog about books and writing, which means that I now run four websites to do with writing.
In summer the balcony is my favourite writing space. Since I love writing in cafés I’ve tried to create an atmosphere that satisfies my sensory cravings for coffee, music, and a view. Paradoxically, a certain disorder helps me travel into the dark place where I keep my stories. Unwanted thoughts travel the music, coffee is not only fuel but also a taste, and movement provides visual occupation while my mind is elsewhere. Writers who love cafés do not necessarily need an audience that spurs them into action; they may simply be overactive.
The traditional view of writing is that you sit down at your pulpit in a quiet room. I certainly don’t require Virginia Wolf’s room of one’s own with key and lock, but a room with a view.* An orderly desk facing a blank wall does not give me peace and focus, but claustrophobia. As a child I was given a desk where I was supposed to do my homework, but I always ended up in the cozy kitchen or the busy living room, wherever there was life.
One of my rules as an author is to avoid writing after ten in the evening. By nature I am nocturnal and I also have a killer finishing instinct, which means that I’m unwilling to have a break in the midst of a good flow. This used to be an asset but I’m now in a phase where I also need to be a fully functional mother of three at seven in the morning. Sometimes I need to be available at six, or at any time of the night for that matter. A few years ago I decided that sleep was so precious that I must never touch my laptop after ten and try to go to sleep by midnight.
Yesterday I was fully awake after a fantastic Plastikman party with lovely food and cider spiced up with fresh mint from our garden plot. It was one in the morning and I thought I could just open a document and add a few words. Now picture an alcoholic saying that he’s going to open a bottle and have just a few drops; that’s me when I’m in the mood to write and especially at night. When I came to there was plenty of daylight outside and the clock told me what I didn’t want to know: that I would have about three or four hours sleep at the most.
Early in the morning the Mrs Hyde version of me (a brutal and primitive Mrs Modén) got out of bed, changed my son’s nappy and made coffee. I left the room to look for some clothes, then came back to see my son grab the coffee cup from the table and pour it down the sink as if he wanted to tell me something. I’m sure my son meant well but I needed my magic transformation potion very badly so I made some more and enjoyed the rest of the morning. It wasn’t that awful after all and I will do it again. I’d rather have a life than proper bedtimes.
If I ever catch myself being bored (which is a luxury when you have three children) I ask myself how my characters are doing at the moment. What is it like to lie in a dark pit not knowing when you will be released? How does a psychopath justify his deeds to himself? How would I react if I looked in a mirror and saw a new reflection? You’re already beginning to see why I’m never bored.
This autumn I will teach a series of writing classes, following in the footsteps of Ursula K. Le Guin (Steering the Craft) and Margaret Atwood (Negotiating with the Dead). The first series will focus on the practical aspects of being a writer, such as finding the time to write. The second one will be about storytelling technique, creating characters and seeing endless plot possibilities. I will also offer a special weekend workshop about the creative process, what happens in the brain and how to enact your characters so that you feel what they feel in your own mind and body. If you’ve ever been angry with your characters for what they did while you planned something entirely different, then you know what I mean.
One of my favourite bands Nevermore have released a new album, The Obsidian Conspiracy, and as usual I find myself tripping to psychotic drums, wailing guitars and great lyrics. Listen to this with your eyes wide shut and your skull transforms into a planetarium.
Before I write a novel I do rather extensive research and plan my work. I feel as if I have a neat saucepan and the ingredients to make some hot chocolate. Then the actual writing begins. Characters misbehave and do the most unexpected things, the plot thickens and I find myself with a boiling cauldron that requires spit, mandrake and Devil’s Blood (such a great band!). The book I was planning is suddenly a trilogy, I become unhealthily involved with my psychopath and he starts killing people he wasn’t supposed to kill. I’m not sure writing is a job. It’s more like being possessed.
Did you know that talking ravens have deep, wonderful voices? I saw many ravens during my summer on Iceland… they are truly magical.
If I had been born in the Viking Age I might have been like Jórunn skáldmær, the maiden poet from Norway. Only three stanzas and two half-stanzas of her work Sendibítr* are preserved, mainly in Snorri Sturluson’s work. Sendibítr deals with a conflict between Harald Fairhair and his son Halfdan the Black. My father claims that we are the descendents of Harald Fairhair through Ynglingaätten (it is true that our ancestors belonged to the huge Yngling family), which also claims kinship with the fertility god Freyr. Harald Fairhair had eight women and more than twenty children; it is believed that many Norwegian families also added Harald Fairhair as their “grandfather” to bask in his glory.
Fact or fiction, many of my ancestors are from Norway and my identity is Jämte, not Swedish. A quote about my homeland from Wikipedia: “Jämtland was originally an autonomous peasant republic, its own nation with its own law, currency and parliament. However, Jämtland lacked a public administration and is thus best regarded as an anarchy…”
*Biting or bitter message, a modern equivalent would be an insulting letter.
