About writing

I think I stopped defining myself as a writer several months ago. It feels strange and akward, I haven't been without that definition for a couple of years, but it doesn't fit anymore. I don't write. I'm not a writer. If I'm anything, I'm an editor. Although, that carries with it the intrisic problem that you're only really an editor if you work as one or have the right education (which of course begs the question wether the same should be said about the word "writer" or if we have "author" to glorify the truly proffesional writer. Writers are, after all, allowed to be amateurs, authors not so).

But I do feel like an editor, I want to be an editor. When I grow up I'm going to better texts for a living. There is something special in a good text. Potential, getting to be a part of something like that feels good, personal. Intimate. Seeing a text develop is purely fulfilling. On the flip side, people who despite tons of advice just don't get it. Drive me up the fucking wall. People who cannot develop, improve or listen to what they're being told should be shot on sight.

I really wish I could be a writer again though, so I'm making a vow to get back into the habit, and this blog is going to be my goddamn tool. I will write prose, poetry, blogs, essays, rants or otherwise, but I will write. And I will write every goddamn day and post it here. The key to writing is after all, habit. I need to get back into the habit and then maybe, I'll eventually get to the part where I can dredge out something worthwhile from it.

Yer a good girl, even if ya don' speak scottish.

I don't hate my job, I wouldn't say that. There are however moments when I'm not sure wether I should laugh uproariously at the fine sense of humor our universe posess, or cry: because apparently I'm the butt-end of the joke.

The delicious irony is, of course, that I have phone-phobia, calling roughly a 100 different persons in one night doesn't seem to help, I can't bear to call to check out a potential job, if the ad doesn't provide me with an adress or an e-mail. Or worse, won't accept anything but a phonecall I'm out of luck. I just can't call. As a devoted believer in the credo Being In Total Control, Honey! this is fairly annoying, but the important thing here is that I've learned several interesting things in my short time as a telephone sales-person.

• It is possible to say no in 46 different ways without drawing breath once.

• People who own expensive cars, such as BMW's or Porsches are never at home.

• People who own cars whose brand-names are too complex to pronounce are never at home either.

• This is usually a good thing.

• Mispronouncing Peugeot will make a lot of people laugh.

• It is not part of a good selling-ethic to yell at your customers.

• People with a dialect have a better sense of humor.

• Calling people who are recently diseased is a bad idea

• The people who live at home with their mom when they're 40 do exist.

Life as a Young Adult never cease to amaze me.

Lists

I love lists. Lists has to be one of the most glorious inventions of human-kind. There is no other way that combines efficiency, planning and gratification in quite the same way as a list.

Once you've bulleted the things you need to do it's a simple matter of deciding each item's relative importance to each other and slowly, tick them off with a shiver of satisfaction as each little tick proves your actual worth in terms of action vs. lazing around.

To be quite frank, I've never characterized myself as a neat-freak, or a list-fetishist (the latter was brought on quite recently actually), but lately, I've been reconsidering the former statement. Granted, a couple of years back I was a slob of the worst sort. Filth and I were buddies, homies, brothers in arm and shit like that, but no more!

The first thing I do when I don't know what to do, is sort and clean. Usually my room, or as today, the fridge. It's an occasional behaviour that's proving to become more frequent. Possibly I should get into Feng Shui, but then I'd have to deal with the dilemma of placing my waste-paper basket either in my Friendship Corner or behind the Box o' Finances. Neither of which is desirable as my capability to retain money and keep up friendships are questionable, at best. Suffice to say, the waste-paper basket is a loathed, heavily discriminated item in Feng Shui and as such, I should clearly take a stand against it. Because we don't like racism.

If Feng Shui could somehow alleviate my capacity to keep cactuses alive I might reconsider my stance on the matter.

It is quite possible that I should make a list of pros and cons of taking up Feng Shui, watch this space.

Edith Södergran

Nietzcheian feminist, lesbian icon, ground breaker of Finland-Swedish modernism. Despite all this, I don't have the slightest fucking clue as to what to make of this woman. I just can't seem to make up my mind.

One of the most obvious characteristics of her poetry is that she does not write verse. All of her poetry is strictly free-form. Something she freely admits being incapable of producing in the foreword of her second collection of poems, The September Lyre.

That my writing is poetry no one can deny, that it is verse I would not claim. I have tried to bring certain obstinate poems into a rhythm and thus discovered that I only possess the power of words and imagery in full freedom, that is, at the expense of rhythm.

The insight into (and admittedly, the arrogance of) her own capabilities is both something of reassurance and annoyance. On one hand, thank god she's aware of it at least. On the other, I'd like to see a bit more structure in her work, as the lack of it is a serious annoyance more often than not.

Not to mention the ellipses. Sweet Jesus on a stick the rampant abuse of the ellipses. I am half an inch short of violating her grave for the express purpose of shaking some sense into the mouldy contents of her skull. Rat-a-tat-a-Rattle. It's not worth it goddamnit! It's not worth it!

Despite these annoyances there are poems and moments where she shines.

Take my hand, take my white arm,
take my narrow shoulder's longing...

- The day cools I, Poems (1916, my trans.)


It reaches out and grabs you, ellipses and all. Perhaps even because of them. While she claims that her power over words and imagery is compromised by rhythms and rhyme-schemes, I find that her most compelling poems are often those that adhere to some sort of rhythm or meter.

You sought a flower
and found a fruit.
You sought a well
and found a sea.
You sought a woman
and found a soul.
- You are disappointed.

- The day cools IV, Poems (1916, my trans.)

So, I admit disappointment in the fact that she so clearly avoids to make use of it more often. One could of course argue that she was in fact, a mediocre poet who occasionally shone, but I'm not quite ready to make that judgement.

I don't have the slightets fucking clue as to what to make of this woman.

Books I need to buy before I die

I recently made a short list of the books I have on my shelf in a forum I frequent, the result was rather depressing. So, to aid me in my future book-shopping endeavors, I'm starting a list of books I ought to buy at some point. Because I never remember when opportunity pokes me in the eye.

• The complete works of William Shakespeare
• Everything by Jules Verne
• Impro by Keith Johnstone
• 1984 by George Orwell
• Everything by Jonas Gardell
• Thus spoke Zarathustra by Nietzche
• The Dwarf by Pär Lagerkvist
• Eats, shoots and leaves by Lynne Truss
• The second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir
• The Death Gate Cycle by Marget Weis and Tracy Hickman
• Watership Down by Richard Adams
• A decent swedish - english dictionary
• Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
• Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
• Drawing on the right-hand side of the brain and About Colour by Betty Edwards
  

Obscene amounts of editing is to be expected.

Pride and Prejudice

Author: Jane Austen

Publishing house: W. W Norton & Company, Inc.

First Publication date: January, 1813

Shameful as it is, I must admit that I was lured into reading this book after watching the movie, and not even the old version either, but the most recent remake, starring Keira Knightely. However this has injured my aura of pretension and elitism, I promptly fell in love with the movie and it was with equal parts curiosity and dread that I cracked the book open to see if it, too, would tickle my fancy.

The book starts with the most exciting arrival of a certain Mr. Bingley at the mansion of Netherfield Hall. Accompanying him is his sisters but also, a good personal friend, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. While Mr. Bingley soon gains the reputation of being pleasant, charming and overall friendly, his companion Mr. Darcy, is found less agreeable and far too proud and haughty to be likeable. Ms. Elizabeth Bennet takes immediate dislike to him after an overheard slight at the Netherfield Ball and it is the conflict between these two individuals our story concerns.

One of my greatest worries in reading the book was the fact that is considered one of the greatest romance novels of our time. While I greatly enjoyed the movie, I was worried of encountering a never-ending stream of fluff, sap, swooning and Damsels in Distress. Suffice to say, this was not the case.

I know for a fact that several renowned feminists have been disappointed with Austen because the book does not promote female empowerment and equality. While I can, on one hand see where they are coming from, I can on the other, not join them in their political lamentations. Pride and Prejudice is a good story. The setting and the characters are solid, built upon Austen's keen observation of her own time as they are. The story holds the right amount of realism, obstacles and dreamy wish fulfillment to keep the reader engaged, what is there to be disappointed with?

While lacking any greater political impact I find several minor details that from the afore-mentioned feministic view-point certainly is encouraging. Elizabeth's dismissal of Mr. Collins proposal does not lead to dire consequences for herself as one would perhaps expect. Refusing an offer of marriage in the early 1800's was after all a very, very grave thing to do. On the contrary, by standing her ground, holding on to her beliefs she, an intelligent head-strong young woman, “wins”

While I greatly admire the wit and the gallantry of Austen's writing, there are some things that bothered me, although I'm not quite sure if it stems from her personal way of writing, or the writing style of the time. One problem stems from the narrator, while she uses that particular voice in a smooth manner, there are several events that we are merely told about but never shown, which irks me. Another, closely related problem is what she chooses to leave to the imagination of the reader: Tone of voice.

I freely admit that seeing the movie was helpful in establishing the characters and their mannerisms in my head, as Austen often left me hanging in that department. Wether a character whispered or cried out her words we were certainly aware, but were they upset? Happy? Sarcastic? Often, too often, this was left up to the interpretation of the reader in a wholly unresponsible manner, making the characters come across as blurry around the edges. I suspect this may turn several readers off from the book, which is quite sad.

Despite this, Pride and Prejudice is a lovely read which I would recommend to anyone. It is a feel-good tale in a realistic setting with snappy dialogue, good humor and just a pinch of dreamy to spice it up.