Blame it on the mother

My grandpa died a long, long time ago. No, this isn't going to be a sad story, but if you have a very righteous sense of humour, you should not keep reading.

So, my grandpa died and was buried in a town far from here. My grandma died (at the honourable age of 97) recently and was buried in her family graveyard. After some debates and letters sent back and forth, my mother was allowed to dig up my grandpa's ashes and move them over to grandma's family grave. The problem was that since he died a long, long time ago, she had to pick them up herself or pay an insane amount of money.

Today, my grandpa got to make a roadtrip across the country for the first time in a long while. My mother and I have had great fun discussing this fact on the phone.

We agreed that he had to be disappointed that he wasn't allowed to ride shotgun but had to sit in the back, and I pointed out that they had to buckle him in. And my mom's husband did a bad first impression by pronouncing grandpa's name wrong. We're not sure if he'd enjoy the modern music played on the radio, but we think he enjoyed passing the different towns for the first time in a while.

So if you wonder why I've got a slightly twisted and unintelligible humour, there's a good explanation for that. 

It's my mother's fault.

Good news all around

I know I'm awfully quiet on the blog nowadays but I'm trying to find my centre again - the who I am instead of who I have been and who I wanted to be. It's difficult. I'm not very good at adjusting goals downward, and I'm lousy at not being as great as I want to be.


Good things that have happened:

I managed to edit through (again) the manuscript for which I had/have the highest hopes. I started a new WiP.

The doctors finally checked me over for rheumatic diseases and brain tumeurs - nothing abnormal was found. I've got a prescription for muscle-relaxants that has improved my neck & back and my sleep.

Albeit through very sad circumstances, I will inherit enough money to get me through the college degree I want (biology) without agonising about extra work hours.

Also, today my short story was published in the local newspaper. It's in Swedish, but the "article" looks very pretty. It should be possible to read the text if you click on the image.

 

 

My short story "Never Loved" in the local newspaper.

Friday Fun - Happy Together

Crap sounds better in another language

People have always asked me why I've chosen to write my stories in my second language instead of my native one. I started doing so because I found Elfwood.com and wanted to share my stories. Then it just flowed on like that and when I starte´d to write in Swedish again it sounded odd. I couldn't put my finger on why it sounded odd. It was as if the words were flatter, less vibrant. I blamed Swedish, and kept going with English.

Lately, I've started to notice the same in English. The stories aren't as good as they once were and I thought: How can you become WORSE at something?

The other day I started to translate two WIPs into Swedish. Just because maybe my family will be easier to coerce into reading my writing than my friends are.

Translating my writing to my native language had a worrying effect. I realised (for real this time) that I'm not good at writing. As long as I weren't that great at English I didn't notice how lacking my skills were. Back in the start it all sounded awesome to me (it sounds even better in French which is my third language).

So. Yeah. You guys. I hate you for never making me see the truth. Now I've given up so much for this dream that I don't know how I'll manage to live without it.

And I think she knows that

I bite my own hand to soothe the pain in my back. I realised that a few minutes ago, and I have no idea for how long I've done it. When the pain started with headaches, I used to sit through group meetings with my eyes closed and two fingers pressed against the root of my nose.

I need my ways to cope. Physical discomfort has always been the best way to distract - whether it's the flu or pressing my nails into my flesh. Some days (alright, most days) I imagine myself taking a knife and stab myself in the back of my neck.

Instead I get myself more chocolate, pour myself a cup of tea (if I'm not currently heat sensitive) and mutter to Mutant Cat who's curling up in my lap that she's in the way (even though I don't want her to move).

What makes us ourselves

We interpret things differently. This has become very clear to me the last months. First off, you need to know that I live in constant pain. Constant, as in all the time. 24/7. So when I say "I'm alright" I mean "no worse than usual" - which includes being in pain, feeling nauseous, muscle weakness and difficulty focusing. When I say "not doing so good" it's a worse, want-to-stab-myself-in-the-neck or can-I-die-soon pain.

People around me don't understand that. They see "alright" or "can't sleep" and they make comparisons to their own aches. And I want to slap them. Do they know how lucky they are? For one or a few days they're in pain and then they're not.

I turn bitter. I wonder what right they have to complain. And I react in a way seemingly violent, seemingly illogical and irrational.

And that's why your characters don't need to make sense - not to everyone else. As long as you know the reason behind their reactions, fine. Their personal problems and hang-ups make them themselves. It gives them personality and a life outside the pages. You might need to have them snap somewhere in the story or make a friend of theirs explain the situation to the main character. Or you can show these issues to the reader through internal 3rd person POV.

Or maybe you don't mention it at all. The world is full of people we will never understand. It only makes sense if your main character encounters a few of those too.

Damn you, Janet Evanovich

A few times in your life you need to stop and re-evaluate your self image. You might realise that maybe that career in law isn’t what you want, or that pink isn’t your colour. I know – right now you’re thinking “but where’s the writing? Is this another depressing IRL post?” Don’t panic. Writing stuff will ensue.

I had one big “waaait a moment” feeling around the time I turned twenty and realised I was gay. I had never seen myself as gay. I figured I was incredibly picky with men. I didn’t know how it was supposed to feel. It was a difficult realisation to have, especially as I had missed out on all those pretty high school girls.

The other big turn around was the other day when I picked up the books I had just bought and saw two more Janet Evanovich books. Suddenly I had to accept the fact that I gush all about them, that I can’t wait for the film to come out (One for the Money) and that I usually read them straight through in one day. I love them. They’re not the height of literature, a wonder in writing technique, full with deep thoughts or have a society-challenging plot. But they make me laugh. They make me want to buy a cookie jar. They even make me challenge my gayness because damn, that Joe Morelli is hot.

I’ve never seen myself as a romance/comedy/detective person. I’ve been into fantasy, science-fiction, high dramas. And you know what, I was wrong. I narrowed myself down and I have missed out for such a long time.

This is the reason you should never let anyone – least of all your own prejudice – put you in a box. When you read, try something new. When you write, try everything. Our hearts are better judges than our brains.