On people

People are such interesting creatures.

I find myself studying them, like a nature photographer might study insects or a pride of lions. I'm Sir David Attenborough, only the habitat of study is found among lattes and fake rustique furniture, rather than palm trees and exotic plants.

A meeting. Four women. In their forties, or seemingly in their forties. Maybe one is a little older. Maybe one is younger. But they are all of the glorious "too old to be naive, young enough to be fresh of mind" age. They know life, these women. They have ambitions, careers, they spend their weekends as happily with their small children as with friends over a glass of wine. Some of them are divorced. One has a young lover. They know where they are going, and more importantly - they know where they've been.

The women are joined by a man. He is midgeted by them. He is a photographer, and his task is to document the meeting. An interview. Classy pictures in soft light, disguising fine lines around the eyes, but not hiding the stauesque shades that add character to the faces. The man takes a bite of his sandwich. Takes a few more pictures. Knows that his role is unimportant now, here, but once the interview is published, the pictures will be glorious. He knows. He is man enough to realize is position.


A young bust boy. Not the brightest. Slightly inappropriate in that he steals candid looks at the female guests. He performs simple tasks such as refilling the coffee beans, stacking glasses, clearing tables. Maybe he has it the right way, though - why should life be complicated? Free coffee, simple tasks and unlimited access to the view of breastfeeding mothers. He's having the time of his life.


A couple. Recently married, a baby on the way. They hold hands and talk to the bump. Notice a small family nearby, exchange smiles with the tired-looking mother. The children, a toddler and a boy close to school-age, are more noisy than the young couple imagine their own child will be. "I was a quiet kid even if my parents gave me a free upbringing," she thinks, certain that her genes will ensure quiet café visits also after the baby is born. "I will be a firmer parent and thus avoid such nonsense," he thinks, certain that his wife will agree with this approach. "Our child will be different," they agree through meaningful glances as the toddler drops a cup to the floor.


A young mother. Two children, the second one planned. The father is working, and she once thought it romantic to stay at home while the kids were young. It is not romantic. It is meaningful, tiresome, exhausting. She misses her job, her colleagues, her career. She loves her children, but they drive her to the brink sometimes. Like now, when she in a desperate urge to leave the house - even for just a few hours - had taken them to the local café. She knows this  is never a good idea. The kids only ever want cakes or pastries when they are there, and she can't be too firm in public, as she hates making a scene. Then again, she hates the idea of people thinking that she has a habit of feeding her kids confectionery goods. Sugared up and wearing too much clothes the boy turns into a nightmare and the sweet baby girl is not sweet enough to dull her mother's irritation when a cup disintegrates against the concrete floor. For a brief moment she considers standing up and leaving. But then, of course, she doesn't.


A woman, observing the lot. Trying to blend in, trying to conceal her fascination with them. She smiles - not at people, but, seemingly - of them. They don't notice her much, though. Everyone is busy with their own. When she leaves, no one even looks up.

On 2012 (part two)

I know, I know, it's 2013 by now. But before I get used to writing that, I figured it was time to take another look back. Last time I did this, at the end of 2011, I was under the impression that I was barely left standing on my feet in a world that was spinning too fast for comfort (but at the same time, in a slightly interesting manner). I had experienced so much that I barely had time to update the blog, and my life felt turned upside-down. Looking back it felt like the events of that year would be life- and personality altering, and that it wasn't the same Cruella waking up in the morning at the end of 2011 as had done so at the end of 2010.

Maybe it wasn't. But the Cruella waking up at the beginning of 2013 feels familiar. Like I know her. Like we've met before. In 2010, perhaps. Because, even though I believed my 2011 was going to change me for life, I am starting to believe I'm slowly drifting back to my old self. For better and for worse.

Let me explain (or at least try).

The past year I've probably met more challenges that I ever have at once before in my life, including the epicness that was 2011. If I hoped for a peaceful 2012 to get me back down after crazy 2011, I was disappointed. 2012 was the year of the new job (that nearly killed me), the new boyfriend (that kept me alive), 1 1/2 new living arrangements (don't ask), lots of new people (possibly matching that of 2011 too), of countless emotional rollercoasters, of the loss of a loved one and having several others falling ill, of having various heath problems myself (including my first ever ride in an ambulance), and - as a result of all of this - learning how to share both good and bad things (the latter being something I often prefer keeping to myself as to not seem "weak" - I'm still learning, obviously).

Basically, things happened in 2012 too!

But even though the events of 2012 in many ways were probably more life-altering for me than those of 2011, in retrospect, they still seem mellow in comparison. The 2012s were slow events. They built up over time. They didn't wake me up in the middle of the night and made me check a website if the impact was 5.0 or more on the Richter magnitude scale. I don't question the magnitude of falling in love or having a stressful job, but both of those things came to me gradually, with considerable "warnings" ahead.

Also, when I in 2011 occasionally felt I had so much to blog about I couldn't keep up with it (resulting in a somewhat uneven year blog wise), 2012 frequently left me feeling the opposite (which should explain the relatively even non-posting of the past twelve moons). Writing about living the exciting life in Tokyo is one thing, but how do you blog about everyday life at home without it turning into "Today I made dinner for my boyfriend. He said he enjoyed it"...?

Obviously I could blog about other things than everyday life - I've been known to do so in the past - but in that department too the inspiration seemed to fail me. Given that my job was so "mind consuming" in many ways, I had little space left after having read about popes and kings and important historians. And I had absolutely no urge to blog about said popes and kings and important historians.

So I didn't. Again and again I didn't.

Now, it's not like I have a goal of being the most prolific blogger. As such, the frequency of posts here is irrelevant. But having the material, inspiration and ability to blog is something I'd like to keep, thankyouverymuch. I'd rather have time being the constraint than anything else. "Excuse me, but I'm too fabulous and  busy to blog" has a better ring to it than "Sorry, my job and everyday life is sort of uninteresting to write about".

(Mark the importance of the words "to write about" in the above sentence. My life isn't uninteresting, to me. But I am currently having a hard time translating the parts of it I find interesting into words and sentences I'd feel comfortable flying around the interwebs with my name tied to them...)

((I suppose the task ahead is to find a neat balance between making my life itty bit more interesting and figuring out how to write it in a way that makes it more interesting still...))

Anyway, the strangest thing is that in spite of this feeling of "why have I nothing interesting to write?" I find that I don't really mind all that much. It might be a well-known secret to most, but to me this came as news: boring isn't necessarily boring! I find that in real life I cherish these things I can't find an interesting angle for blog-wise. I like making dinner for my boyfriend when he says he enjoys it. I like having a job, and an income, even if I at times have wondered if it was too much (but then the achievement feels all the greater afterwards). I don't like grief and illness and emotional rollercoasters, but I realize that they are a part of life and perhaps they make you grow just as much (albeit in very different ways) as disaster and turmoil.

The lesson from 2011 was that I'd discovered a whole new side of myself. If anything I think 2012 has shown me how the new side fits with the old me, and made me realize that perhaps I didn't change so much after all.

At least, that is what I think now. Perhaps come the start of 2014 everything will be different, again.

In terms of resolutions I am still not making any (even if my old "fill in the blanks"-ones were handy). But there are things I'd like to do, goals I'd like to fulfill, as always. Still, a whole year feels like too big of a unit to digest at once. Maybe this year I should make it my goal to take one day at the time? Who knows, that might even make for a more interesting blog year too...

On stuffophilia

So, it's one of those days...

Zombie White (and no Huntsman)

I *really* want these origami speakers. In addition to being awesome in the capacity of being ORIGAMI SPEAKERS (!), they also sound pretty cool sound-wise. Want.

(Also, from this fabulously awesome site I might be addicted to now ((designfetish.org)), it is worth checking out the posts about people as pixels, the Pixar minimalistic poster series, and not to mention Zombie Attack Barbie. Once she's through with Ken, she can have a go at Snow White...) 

I don't really believe the following really happened, but that's sort of the point, isn't it...

(I wish it were true, though. Bill Murray FTW)

I have inherited from my grandfather a clock (of the mantel variety) that require a deposit of 1 krone (though unfortunately not the currently used version) per week to power it, like a savings arrangement. I don't have a picture or link, but I felt the mentioning of it belonged in this post.

*snort*

I know someone whose potential wedding cake should look like this, but I am not going to tell him because I don't want him to think I am making suggestions... (You know who you are and if you are reading this: I am not. Making suggestions. I am reading it. After having written it. Checking for typoes. Probably missing a few.)

Also, I looked up "who's" versus "whose" for the umpteenth time. And now I looked up umpteenth... Gah. 



Aaaaand one more posting from designfetish(I think I might have one, yes).org:

It's a GUMMY BEAR DRESS!!! OMD - could I pull it off? Probably not, but I could eat it off! Ha! I made a funny! 

And now I need to get off the internet, or at the very least go back to Facebook lurking. Laters, taters!

On [insert title]

I want you to think of it as a work of fiction, but one produced by an initially creative mind trained for years to think analytically.

I want you to think of me as the main character in this work of fiction. As such you’ll need to know certain things about me. Had this been a regular work of fiction, I would try to weave it in more “comfortably”, “naturally”, subtly. Perhaps a nice “the main character stares at her own reflection in the mirror before having a flashback to childhood”-scene to start things off. But I won’t be doing that.

First of all, to fit the nature of this text – as mentioned I (and by “I” in this case I mean both main character, narrator and, even, author, even though that is breaking all literary rules) have been trained to think and write analytically. I am a lecturer. I preach to my students to be specific, concrete, clear. “Say exactly what you want to say! Don’t expect the reader to know a thing!” (I also tell them to be genre-aware, which of course contradicts my current point since I am about to use the rules from one genre on a completely different one, but whatever.)

Secondly, you don’t have to know what I look like (but for clarity’s sake: tall, blond, blue eyes, small nose and ears, cheeky grin, freckles for spring, one eyebrow that leaps toward my hairline when I question something [the other one pretty much stays put]). You don’t have to know anything about my childhood (but again: happy, youngest child with two older siblings, a fair amount of precociousness that made me simultaneously cute and terribly annoying). A mirror and flash-back scene, then, would not serve the purpose of this text. Story. Whatever.


There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever. 


Sorry. Whatever. 


Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)


She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little. 


Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not  from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four. 


Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more. 


She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]


She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection. 


[insert footnotes later]


F.

On bags

I recently got a new bag.

It was a good bag. A great bag. I had been searching for one for a while, and there it was. The first one I spotted in the shop. It was surprisingly easy to find, and the price was right.

So I bought it. Started using it immediately. Put all my other bags away. And it felt good. I liked using it. I liked the way it looked on me. Liked the things I did with it

Still. It wasn’t perfect. There was nothing objectively wrong with it – the bag looked good, I felt good with it, it was exactly the kind of bag I’d needed. But there was this small voice in my head, whispering that this bag wasn’t what I *really* wanted. That I liked it because it was easy and comfortable, but that I didn’t love it. Not really. As long as there wasn’t anything wrong with the bag, however, and as long as I didn’t have any other bags that seemed better, I faithfully stuck with the one I had.

Then, one day, the bag broke.

I hadn’t had it for long – only about a month. There was no warning – the bag went from great to broken with one tiny snap. The strap tore off, and just like that, I was without a bag.

I thought about going back to the store and complain. It was a new bag, and it should last longer than a month. I also thought about fixing the bag – maybe the strap could be sewn back on and everything would be as before?

In the end I didn’t do any of those things. I accepted that the bag broke. After all, I was partially to blame. I’d probably put too much stuff in the bag, causing the fabric to rip prematurely. It probably would have been broken sooner or later anyway, but this way I didn’t have the time to get too attached to the bag. Besides, now that I started to think of it, there were things about the bag that I hadn’t liked. It put a little too much strain on my shoulder, for instance. I’d been willing to ignore that since I liked the bag, but now that it was broken, I realized that this was something that with time could have become a real problem. Better to nip it in the bud than to end up with an injured shoulder.

Should I get a new bag? I thought about that too. Even browsed a few stores. But in the end I’m strangely okay with not having a bag right now. I’m not even sure what sort of bag I’m looking for, so for the moment I feel fine without one.

Instead I found an old tote I can use until I know what it is I really want.

For now, that’s enough. 

On my desk

...there is a bottle, empty, but it once contained orange juice. No longer. Someone drank the juice. Me, presumably.

On my desk there is also a postcard, blank, but I originally bought it with someone specific in mind. I still look at it from time to time and find a special guilt in my heart. I should write the postcard soon-ish.

There is a telephone, or two, actually. One is my cell phone of five years this fall. It's been with me through a lot - across oceans, through a master's thesis, several jobs. I've had good news and great news and terrible news and oh-well-it's-probably-for-the-best-news handed to me through it. I've heard voices I despise, and voices I love. Texts that have made me cry. Some that made me glow.
The other phone is the land line to the office I currently occupy. It's rarely in use. This morning it nearly startled me to death, as I'm not used to the sound of it. The conversation was comical and irrelevant.

On my desk there is a Starbucks travel mug. Sakura 2011 edition. I bought it sometime in the early spring last year, expecting to actually be able to see the 2011 sakura blossom in Tokyo. Then the earthquake changed my plan. I hold no grudge against the mug, though.

There is a timetable on my desk. It is too full for my liking.

On my desk there is a pair of sunglasses. They long for usage.

On my desk there is a lot of papers. Some of them belong there, some of them really don't. I should take some time to organize them. I probably won't.

A couple of books - history books - open on the pages of "World War Two" are covered with a pair of gloves and a cheerful scarf.

Another pair of sunglasses. They too long for usage.

On my desk there is three pairs of earrings and two regular rings. And then a keyring. With lots of keys on it. Most of them are to my apartment (4), the rest (3) are for a) work; b) my parents' house; and c) and old bike I haven't used for at least ten years. The figurines attached to the keychain are all bought in Japan, but with 8 years in between.

I have three types of lipgloss and/or lipbalm lying around on my desk.

The various equipment for writing include: one keyboard, three ballpoint pens, two pencils - one of them red, three different colours of highlighters, two felt-tip pens, one "gel-ink" marvel.

On my desk there is a watch. It's not working. Benefit: I didn't have to adjust it for daylight saving this weekend.

Post-it notes of at least three different shapes and colours are spread across the desk.

There is a water bottle on my desk.

On my desk there are two fairly good loudspeakers. The problem is that they only work about half the time.

On my desk there is a dead fly. It's been sitting in that exact position since I moved into this office in October.

On Decisions and the City

...as I walked down the streets of the forlorn city, I couldn't help but wonder: have the 21st century made us unable to make independent decisions?

I've been watching a lot of Sex and the City lately. Carrie Bradshaw surely must be one of the great philosophers of our time. At least she manages what other philosophers fail at: presenting a world view that makes sense to me, from which I can try to make sense of my own confusing life.

Using Carrie & CO as a reference point is fun - and disturbing. Is he a Mr. Big? Or an Aidan? And am I a Carrie or a Miranda? A Charlotte? Or - at times - a Samantha, even? And most importantly of all - do I need this many shoes? (Of course I do!)

I realize it is fiction, and I realize that the life of four glamorous 30-somethings in New York City does not translate well to my own 20-something life here in boring, old Oslo. Still. There are some things that appear to be universal, and Carrie the Philosopher offers some interesting perspectives on that great mystery women have been trying to figure out since the beginning of time: the man. Who is he? How to approach him? And why do we (as in "we, women") have so many twisted expectations for him, and the life we want him to provide for us? (Which, I might add in this "female power"-inspired post, I find completely ridiculous. First you need to provide your own life, find your own goal and become a confident, independent person. Then you can find a guy who is compatible with this life and this person you've become. Or at least that sounds more ideal than changing for the guy; or worse: expecting him to change for you. Change might be good, but it is at the very least unlikely.)

Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and to a certain extent, Charlotte, are confident, independent women (though with the mandatory confidence issues and hiccups like the rest of us). (And - yes - I realize they might not be realistic characters, but instead stereotypes. That is a whole different discussion, though.)

Independence is a virtue in the 21st century, even (or especially) for women. And yet - this is my claim - we frequently find ourselves unable to act independently. The SatC-girls have a touch of it - no problem is left unturned in their famous NYC brunches. They debate and discuss everything from penis sizes to the exchange of keys with new boyfriends. They depend on the advice from friends to make their decisions.

This is not a bad thing, but with modern technology comes modern problems. We no longer have to preserve our problems for Sunday brunch - our advisors are present 24/7 through Facebook, Twitter, or cell phones. Earlier today I found myself consulting a friend about a rather mundane topic. I won't go in details (despite it being mundane, it would also be too self-incriminating to mention here...), but the point is that it made me realize I've forgotten the ability to make decisions all by myself. My recent experiment to ensure that I still am able to function properly without Facebook IV directly plugged to my arteries (I managed four days completely off, and I missed it surprisingly little), forced me to make certain smaller decisions - what to wear or whether to eat bread or yoghurt for breakfast; things like that - without consulting my team of online specialists.

I'm only exaggerating a little.

I remember watching an episode of House, M. D. once (a show I am sad to see cancelled, even though I don't watch it myself anymore, since it made me a total hypochondriac), where a patient was an enthusiastic blogger. She was up for a sugery to have her heart valve replaced (I think. Not entirely sure what the surgery was, come to think of it). In order to make the decision of whether or not to have the surgery, she consulted her blog readers.

The episode was supposed to show a crazy example. Who would do something like that? Ask random strangers on the Internet to make life or death decisions?

The scary thing, though, was that the thought of doing just that wasn't so foreign to me. Okay, I wouldn't consult whomever reading this for questions about my health, but that is more a matter of privacy. Communication and consultation with others, through blogging or Facebook or whatnot has become so common that I don't immediately see the problem even though I know there's supposed to be one.

I think once I have identified the problem, though, my conclusion is different than the House-writers probably planned. They wanted to say something about the crazy online society we've constructed. I want to say something about society in general.

A hundred years ago my ancestors lived in the deep Norwegian forests, not being able to communicate with friends or relatives every second of every day. If they were lucky they probably saw one another once every ten years or so. I can assure you they did not have problems making decisions! Because part of the issue here isn't just that we make ourselves dependant on someone else - no, adding to that problem is the fact that most of us make ourselves dependant on several someones. And trust me - if I ask my team of online consultants what to wear or what to eat for breakfast, I will get more than one answer! I'm asking them to make my decisions easier, but in reality they often only provide more options, thus making it even harder!

Let's pretend this post isn't as long as it is, and that you've actually bothered reading all the way down to the bottom. There is a life lesson down here, somewhere. Something to do with Facebook, perhaps - how being away was good, and being back is good, and that somewhere in the middle probably is the golden direction to take. Something to do with how I communicate - of remembering that sometimes having all the options and making a qualified decision isn't the rational choice, if nothing else because it takes too much time. And something about Sex and the City. It's not a perfect show, and the philosophy is definitely not perfect. But it is comforting, entertaining.

As I wrote the last few words towards completion of this strange and confusing post, I couldn't help but wonder: has our inability to make decisions led us to accept a philosophy based on product placement and idealized lifestyles to excuse our otherwise chaotic existence? Yes. Yes it has. Stop asking rhetorical questions.

On this

This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:

(only now it's not in  that paragraph anymore)

(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)

"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"

This is irony.

Let me translate.

"What's vocabulary in English?"

This is irony.

This is not:

I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.

Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.

Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).

What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?

Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.

Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.

And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.

Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).

On Botswana

This post has nothing to do with Botswana.

I just needed a title. A working title, if you will. But if you won't, you'd be more correct, because it has effectively ceased to be a working title now that I've commented on it. Otherwise the comment wouldn't make sense. And then I'd have to change the introduction to this post. I'd be a working post.

I won't change the introduction or title of this post. Even though it has exceptionally little to do with Botswana.

It has exceptionally little to do with most things, actually. Though, "actually", it's not that hard to not discuss most things. Even if I were to discuss coffee filters, telephones, snow, sunsets, polka-dot dresses, cartoons, albatrosses, fiddlers, mid-century furniture, lollipops and single-cell animals - which I am not - the things-packed post I'd have written would still not discuss "most things". All the above mentioned things are, after all, a minority when it comes to things in general. All the things. This wasn't even a sizeable sample.

A post that has nothing to do with Botswana or most things.

It also has nothing to do with Lionel Richie. (Well, I suppose now it sort of does...)

I can see the postman. But the non-Botswana post also has nothing to do with that. Maybe I should write a post-post sometime? And then the day thereafter I can write a post post-post. Ha. Sometimes I'm too funny for my own good...

I am too [insert multiple adjectives] for my own good, actually. My mind is everywhere else than where it should be. Or... "Should" should be a matter of definition. One should have one's mind where I have mine right now, occasionally. (That sounded naughty. It isn't. Not really. The answer to the question I'm sure y'all are desperate to ask - "where??" - is not "the gutter". For once.) But one should perhaps not have one's mind there when one is trying to work. Or write posts that are or are not about Botswana.

Work. Concentration. Reading. Thinking. Planning. Planning... Hoping? Dreaming? Wanting?



Sheep.



Cookie.



Actually, here's a Botswana-related thing (out of all the things) after all. I learned yesterday that Botswana has a remarkably well-functioning economy, with the highest growth rate in the world. There. Title justified.

On wordless week

I was blogging according to the NaBloWriMo schedule. And then I wasn't. Suddenly, I stopped.

I've never not completed a blog challenge I've committed to before. I've written short and/or crappy posts, yes, but I still posted daily. This time I didn't. Not because I couldn't. Not because I didn't have the time. I have had less time than usual this week, but I still would have found a way if I wanted to. But I didn't want to. So I stopped.

I hardly think anyone missed me. Even the eager readers that still stop by here every now and then out of old habit, won't have minded a few days off. Let's face it, there isn't people out there whose happiness relies on daily posts from me. The only person whose happiness that should be even remotely tied to that, is my own. And I didn't miss me either.

Blog challenges often suit me, because I have a talent for writing about nothing. Spinning yarn from imaginary wool, it's my thing. But really. Sometimes the world only needs so much yarn.

I've lately pondered the concept of talking about nothing. Of talking to, or with, someone if you don't really have anything to say. In relationships, romantic ones or friendships, this can be crucial. Few have so much happening in their lives that they constantly find topics to talk to their spouses with. And so the ability to make meaningful conversation over small things - things that doesn't matter - becomes important.

Blog wise, I'm not sure the same applies. It does if you insist on blogging daily. You will inevitably run into a dry spell, and unless you are willing to repeat yourself, it is highly likely that you'll have to result to a few posts about nothing.

If you don't insist on posting daily, however, many would benefit from posting only when they actually have something to say. And by "many", I mean me. Naturally there will still be the occasional "nothing"-post - I am me, after all - but I think I am done with blog challenges for now. When I first got into them, they were a brilliant way of practicing dependability. Learning how to post daily. Later ones were brilliant networking-wise. Finding new blogs, earning new followers. And some of the blog challenges have been tests for myself, to see how much I can realistically expect to achieve when I deliberately put too much on my plate.

This last one, however, may be the most important of all. It taught me that I have finally found a mode of blogging I am comfortable with. I don't feel the pressure to post daily, or on a regular basis. I don't feel the need to follow any blog "rules". I won't visit more blogs than I have the time to, and then only the ones I want to visit. I don't do pity-visits, and certainly hope no one does to me.

If I have nothing to say, I won't blog. Unless I want to say something about nothing.

On everything else than what I want to not write about

Not that I want to write about anything in particular. Or not write about anything in particular, for that matter. I acknowledge that the title of this post is more than a little confusing. But then again, that's what you've come to love about this blog, isn't it? I strive to confuse. Or digress. Or something or other to do with giraffes.

Anyway. I'm not really writing this. I'm pressing my fingers against the keyboard in hope that they will produce words in seemingly coherent order, preferable in a sentence-based structure. If I'm lucky I might produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Or maybe some monkey next to me will. Not that it matters - as far as I'm aware those are already published, so it is hardly that much benefit to writing them again. You can probably download the Kindle edition for free, so it's not even worth the time.

Instead, then, a blog post. About nothing. Nothing is the deal. I could tell you about job applications - and what an expert I'm becoming in filling out online resume forms - but it would bore you. It already bores me. I could tell you about how it's nice to have "vacation" (but it's not when said "vacation" really is "between jobs"), or about how I'm not as disillusioned about finding a job as I sound (I just really hate online forms). I am fairly optimistic, still. I've had a few interviews. I find listings where I am qualified. I'm becoming a self-proclaimed expert on mixing up a quick application. (I told you it would bore you.)

But still. It's not the best of situations. I want to be in Oslo. It's nice of my parents to house me, and feed me, and provide my every need. But still. I want to be in Oslo (déja vu much?). And I want to work, now. I want to be useful, now. I want to see my friends, visit my regular hang-outs. I want to have an apartment in Oslo. Now.

Waiting - I'm not at my best game. I tend to forget to live in the moment when I wait. Limbo doesn't suit me. It goes for job hunting, it goes for temporary living, it goes for personal relationships. If I know what I'm waiting for, it's another story. I can be Patience embodied then. But insecurity? It gets to me.

I'm waiting for a whole lot of things at the moment. And while I wait, I should write. I wrote this. It will have to do, for now.

On... Love?

What is this - love - you're talking about? A grand word. Not often employed where I hail from. Many of us would consider it a floskel (google it). It's even grander, more unattainable in Norwegian: Kjærlighet. Å elske. I remember a song from when I was young(er): "It's easier to say 'I love you' in English," it said, in Norwegian. It's true. "Love ya!" Much more casual than "Jeg elsker deg" or even "Jeg er glad i deg".

Norwegians may be known for their naivety, innocence, peacefulness or good-natured pastorality (I like making up words that end with -ity. Deal with it). But also for a certain skepticism to new things. For being withdrawn, stiff, hard to get to know. Foreigners coming to Norway find themselves surprised at the empty streets after closing hours (and the fact that those closing hours are so darned early). "I'd forgotten that the whole country shuts down after 7pm," said a friend after an extended stay abroad. It's not far from the truth.

I think this is part of the reason that the last week have been particularly inspiring for many of us. Suddenly we're allowed to show your emotions in Norway. The Prime Minister, with tears in his eyes, admitting that he has cried over the recent tragedy. Grown men - tough, poker-faced men, normally - allowed themselves to be moved by the many ceremonies and memorials. Strangers hugging on the street. And all these words. Solidarity, community spirit, togetherness. Love. Even in Norwegian.

The world has been impressed, perhaps, with the Norwegian reaction to the atrocities. However, it is nothing compared to how impressed we are with ourselves. We had almost forgotten we had it in us. The quiet, everyday type of love that's been around the whole time, and the more "special occasion love" that only surfaces in weddings, birthdays and for those who celebrate Valentine's Day - it's all been spectacularly overshadowed by =LOVE=. #OsLove. Rose love. Love for each other, in large, shiny, glamorous letters in the sky.

Maybe these words are empty, floskler. Or maybe they are not. Maybe it doesn't even matter. It seems we needed them, now. I saw a tweet today, that made me nod: "This is the time to forgive benevolent floskler." (Pardon my French, er, English. Translations aren't my strong point, and I've grown fond of the word floskel today.)

I love that.

On urban localism

Tokyo is one of those places that doesn't always feel very large despite the fact that its population is one of the largest for any city in the world (depending on how and what you count). As an urban area, it's obviously HUGE with its 30 million people. But the place I'm currently living in, however, doesn't feel very big at all. Perhaps the considerable local-ness of Tokyo is what made me feel so at home here right from the start? Below are a few of the things that comprise my local community.

The Mori Tower. My favourite skyscraper.

Roppongi Crossing

Traditional meets modern, at the Imperial Palace/Hibya

Hibiya at sunset ♥

One of the oddest buildings I know, right in my neighbourhood

Because every pet needs that special attention, right?

Temple with a basketball net? But of course. 

Geisha barbie and all her friends @ the spa...

Stairway to heaven? Maybe not, but there is a temple at the top

The mandatory temple cat 

I thought this was interesting, in all its moldy, broken beauty

Messy, noisy, trafficky, and YET local...

I ♥ local Tokyo :)

On Wordfull Wednesday

It's Wednesday, and Wednesdays are supposed to  be wordless, or so the Internet has taught me. But how can I possibly be wordless when I've been so for almost a month? My self-imposed hiatus was a much needed break from blogging and internetting and procrastinating (alright - I didn't completely stay away from all of it - I probably would have suffered terrible withdrawal if I had), and it served two purposes. First, to successfully guide me through the final weeks of thesising, and FINISHING (and there was much rejoicing). I'm not entirely done yet - I still have to "defend" it sometime this month - but the main job is definitely done. Done. Over. No more thesis. Never. Ever.

Secondly, my radio silence was a way for me to recover - psychologically - after having exercised my brain for too long, in too many fields. I was so tired. So sick of putting myself, my opinions, findings, arguments out there. In the thesis, I mean. But by extension, also on the blog.

Hence, it felt good to take a break. To spend a few days sleeping. To spend some time with my flesh-and-blood, real life friends again. To buy the first few Christmas presents. To clean my apartment, thoroughly, for what feels like (oh, who am I kidding, it is) the first time in months. It's been more than two years working on this research project, and the relief I felt getting it over with is incomparable to anything I've ever felt in my life (or is it? I thought it would be when I wrote this, weeks ago [yes, I already confessed I didn't stay away entirely...], but in reality it is just another thing that's been crossed off the bucket list. It's another worry swiped from my mind. But there are no fireworks or marching bands just yet). I may not have resurfaced doing everything I've pictures the last few months I'd do the second I finished - I have yet to break open a bottle of champagne or bake a cake or dance on the table, for instance - but just knowing that I can, if I choose to, is glorious. Free will has been restored.

Of course there is the less nice aspects of this as well. Real life catches up. On top of all the cleaning, organizing, catching upping I have to do, I also have to start planning for moving out of this apartment (at the end of this month), and packing everything I'll need in Japan the next six months. There is a million things I need to fix before I leave, and some of them have been put on hold a little too long because of the thesis. Now they are hanging over me instead. I'm also starting to work full time in the bookshop today - I'll be spending about 60% of my December wrapping presents for undeserving customers.

Despite all this, I'm still glad to be back. I'm looking forward to once again writing (non-thesis) regularly. To spew the internet with my opinions and whimsies. To read and write comments, to visit blogs, to explore the many new faces I haven't yet managed to get to know properly. I'll be back at the Burrow, too, trying to figure out our new (and hopefully improved) schedule (you all should visit the Burrow's end of 2010 drabble feature, by the way - it'll be awesome). And all of this, guilt free! No more thesis calling me from the other computer, complaining that it isn't finished yet (because it IS!).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In completely unrelated news, the fabulous Talli Roland is launching her debut novel - The Hating Game - in digital form at Amazon today. In celebration of this, she is also launching a blog splash to spread the word. I could say more, but she really says it better herself:

Help Talli Roland's debut novel THE HATING GAME hit the Kindle bestseller list at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk by spreading the word today. Even a few sales in a short period of time on Amazon helps push the book up the rankings, making it more visible to other readers.

Amazon.co.uk: http://amzn.to/hNBkJk

Amazon.com: http://amzn.to/hX2ieD

No Kindle? Download a free app at Amazon for Mac, iPhone, PC, Android and more. Coming soon in paperback. Keep up with the latest at www.talliroland.com.

About THE HATING GAME:

When man-eater Mattie Johns agrees to star on a dating game show to save her ailing recruitment business, she's confident she'll sail through to the end without letting down the perma-guard she's perfected from years of her love 'em and leave 'em dating strategy. After all, what can go wrong with dating a few losers and hanging out long enough to pick up a juicy £200,000 prize? Plenty, Mattie discovers, when it's revealed that the contestants are four of her very unhappy exes. Can Mattie confront her past to get the prize money she so desperately needs, or will her exes finally wreak their long-awaited revenge? And what about the ambitious TV producer whose career depends on stopping her from making it to the end? 

I'm really looking forward to seeing if Talli really can take on Amazon - her efforts to spread the word so far has been very impressive, and it would be nothing short of amazing if she really managed to get a debut, indie novel on the Amazon bestseller list. Best of luck, Talli! Also, I am hoping Santa brings me a Kindle for Christmas, and if he does, The Hating Game will definitely be on my list for books to download! 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Finally, or also-also, or alsø wik if you like, and yes, we're still on unrelated news, (and in the process, this sentence is being punctuationally abused,) today is December first. That means 'tis the season of Christmas. It means you can listen to Nat King Cole sing about roasting chestnuts on an open fire; you can eat gingerbread cookies without worrying about calories (for real!); you can open the first door of your Christmas calendar (but only the first); you can light the first of the four advent candles (still only the first); you can start thinking about Christmas presents (boo to anyone who already finished - you're too efficient!); and you can do all the things that pre-Christmastime make. It's allowed. It's almost Christmas! For real! (And it looks like it will be white, at least here in Oslo.)

On radio silence

Do you ever feel overwhelmed by the availability we create for ourselves by constantly being online, having our cell phones on at all times and generally being easy to contact wherever, whenever? 

I do. The remedy is often to log off for a little while, for instance going for a solitary walk without bringing any electronic equipment. The world will just have to accept that you are not available for a while. Sometimes it takes a little longer – if someone had offered me two weeks in a cabin in a remote location where no internet could reach me, I would have accepted immediately. I would have brought a cell phone in case of an emergency, but I think I would have switched it off for the most of the time to experience something I haven’t really done in years (if ever) – complete radio silence. With no one to talk to, no Facebook statuses to “like”, no text messages to reply to, I believe that my mind and my imagination would get a much-deserved and needed break. A complete disconnection from the world might be exactly what I need to recharge my own batteries.

Now, the chances of being offered this cabin is slim (the chances of it existing at all is slim, in the age of satellites and wireless connections anywhere in the world), but there is nothing stopping me from attempting radio silence right here in my own apartment. Nothing but my own will.

Because the one thing most frequently interfering with my intentions to take a break from the world is myself. I can’t seem to stop checking my email, “just one more time”; or refreshing Facebook to see if anything new happened; or scroll down one of the newspapers I follow just to make sure that Lady Gaga hasn't done anything crazy the last ten minutes. Even if I turn off my phone and unplug the internet and lock the door, I would still consider sitting down to write a blog post intended for others to read. Interaction has become an integral part of my life, and it seems almost impossible to cut it out. The task, then, is to keep it to a manageable level.

Because the reason I don’t unplug the internet isn’t that I can’t, it is that I won’t. After all I like the interaction. Even if I occasionally have to duck away from people, online and offline, to preserve my sanity, I wouldn’t want to become a hermit full time (not even one with internet access). Perhaps I should strive to take a week or two off a year, though, just to prove to myself I can?

As you all should know (since I’m constantly complaining about it), the final deadline for my MA thesis is coming up. I survived NaBloWriMo thinking I would not blog much in November, but nevertheless post every now and then, since I do have a few spare posts written. However, even if these posts are written, I realized that I shouldn't post them just yet. Until I have passed the deadline for my thesis, I have other things to do. It wouldn't feel right to post just for the sake of posting, when it is becoming increasingly apparent to me (and everyone else, I suspect) that I don't have the time or stamina to keep up with comments, both here and on other blogs. I miss being an active participant in the blogosphere, but until I have a little more spare time and brain power, I don't see the point of keeping up this half-mode I've succumbed to. Thus I am evoking radio silence. I am going to the dark side of the moon, and I won’t be back in Earth orbit for a few weeks (I’m thinking December).

Wish me luck – both in finishing the thesis and in staying true to my resolution of radio silence – I’m frankly not sure which one will be the hardest.

See you on the flip side! 

On Twitter

Twitter has been one of those things I have loved to hate without ever having really tried it (much like the Twilight series, or Roquefort cheese). From what I had heard about Twitter, it seemed clear to me that it only was a more public and less personal Facebook, it was just another time waster (in which the web already offers too many for my own good), and the limitation of 140 characters appeared to me to be one of the safest ways of ensuring “chat speak”, which I loathe.


However fond I was of my Twitter prejudices, I decided that it was beneath me to continue to discard a worldwide phenomenon that doubtlessly has an impact with its more than 100 million users (a handful of whom I happen to know, so they can’t all be twits [sorry, I’ve been dying to use that sometime…]). I no longer wanted to discard it without knowing what I was discarding. So I decided to sign up for Twitter.

In a way.

As I only intended this to be a temporary experiment, I didn’t really want my Twitter account to be “me”. I did not want to connect to my friends, to start tweeting and then discover that this was the way life should be. I did not want to end up loving Twitter. I only wanted to know why I hated it.

Thus, I signed up with a fake name, fake birthday, fake everything. If you sometime in the last few weeks have been followed by a stranger whose tweets sound oddly familiar, it isn’t me. I deliberately avoided following anyone I knew, because I did not want to get pulled in. I may have peeked at your profile (mwahahaha!), but I didn’t follow it. I acknowledge that this isn’t doing Twitter justice, because any social media becomes fun only when there is interaction (hence the social part). But what I wanted was simply to get a feel for what the hype was all about, and that I did.

At first a few of my prejudices were confirmed. Language wise, Twitter can be annoying. One example that continued to baffle me was that topics that “trended” (from what I gathered “Twitter trends” are keywords often repeated in tweets), frequently had rather obvious spelling errors in them. This either means that a significant number of Twitter users didn’t know how to spell these words, or that a significant number of them didn’t care and spelled it incorrectly on purpose because this was an up-and-coming hashtag (keywords with an # in front of it). Neither alternative bodes well for Twitter’s influence on language.

That being said, Twitter also has a large number of users who seem to interpret the 140 character limitation as a challenge to squeeze an impressing amount of information in the form of quality writing into each tweet. Even though also these users sometimes have to employ certain abbreviations (“PLZ RT” seems unavoidable), it is comforting to know that there exists a Twitter that doesn’t fck w ur spllng (LOL).

That Twitter can be a time waster is without any shed of doubt. But then again, what isn’t? You can claim all you want that you only signed up for Facebook for networking purposes and that your blog serves 100% as a window to the world that one day will lead you to a publishing contract. However, until you prove to me that you haven’t at least once clicked on an old high school friend’s photo album just out of curiosity, or that one or two of the blogs you visit regularly serve no other purpose than to entertain you, I will not listen to a word you say.

Thus, Twitter can waste your time. But Twitter can also be a useful tool to find and connect with people who share your interests in whatever field that may be, it can be a way of keeping up with news, and it can be a great way of promoting yourself. The reason? Twitter’s simplicity. Anyone can tweet, and anyone can retweet. The second you have one single person retweeting a link you posted, it means that all of his/her followers have the chance to visit the link as well.

The prejudice of mine that crashed most profoundly, however, is that Twitter is just a (poorer) version of Facebook. Twitter is nothing like Facebook. Even though you can customize both your Facebook and Twitter experience, Facebook is by nature much more personal, for better and for worse. For two people to be “friends” on Facebook it takes mutual acceptance. On Twitter you can follow anyone, regardless of whether they are following you (even though there is a possibility of keeping tweets private. This seems slightly pointless considering the purpose of Twitter, but whatever floats your tweet…). This means that I get to read tweets by people who never in a million years would have friended me on Facebook. I even get to interact with them by the simple use of an @ in front of whatever tweet I want them to see. Useful? Mnwellno – maybe. Fun? Definitely.

Another thing about Twitter which separates it from Facebook is that it is highly topicized (yes, I know that isn’t a word, but “categorized” just didn’t do it for me today). Because of the aforementioned hashtags you can search specifically for tweets about topics that interest you. If butterfly collecting is your thing, I am sure you can find someone tweeting about it, without having to look through the status updates of butterfly collectors who happened to only write about what they had for breakfast this one particular day (which could be the case if you friended them on Facebook).

I like Facebook because it is a casual way of catching up with friends. I suppose you could do that on Twitter as well, but either you would have to be prepared to do it in public or you would have to write a personal message (and if you’re doing that, you might as well send an email). Thus for that purpose Twitter does not seem as apt. Twitter appears to be best when you have a specific agenda. It doesn’t matter if that agenda is praising Justin Bieber (who should need no further introduction since it appears to be impossible to be on Twitter without hearing about him) or promoting your blog. The domino effect Twitter can create seems unmatched by Facebook. For instance I noticed that the topics trending often were important news stories. This bodes well for the world, people! Twitter users care about Gaza, and not just Justin Bieber!

Another (rather random) thing I noticed during my twitttaffair was that John Cleese follows 150-something twitterers (tweeters?), and a completely disproportionate number of those were from Norway. I do know that the man likes a good old Norwegian Blue, but why in the world..? These were seemingly normal Norwegians, who for some reason had their tweets followed by Mr. Cleese. Any clarification as to why Cleese prefers Norwegians would be helpful. Thanks. (And before you ask – no, he does not follow me. Naturally I did not use Norway as location for my fake Twitter persona!)

In the end, my undercover experiment taught me to accept Twitter rather than liking it (which I never will, I think) or hating it (which I don’t anymore). I might in the future consider opening a real Twitter account, one where I contact actual friends; follow people I actually want to follow as opposed to Aston Cutcher (ooops, did that give me away? Yeah, it might, but you’d have to look through 5 million followers to find the correct fake me); and actively try to network rather than “fakework” which I largely did this time. If I ever get a book to promote, for instance, I do see why (and now how) Twitter can be useful. In the meantime I intend to continue to stay away.

On BuNoWriMo

I’ve been in a partly self-imposed “no-blog-mode” lately (partly, because there also have been things out of my control that kept me away; like moving, and no internet at the new place the first few days, and family commitments, and an intense obsession with the show “How I Met Your Mother”…). I realized that if I ever was to make my June 1st deadline for the next chapter of my thesis I had to stop spending so much time complaining online about how slow my progress was. Also, since my funny mood as of late has been continuing (and the only thing I really want to do when I’m in that mood is to go hermit, which I now have the luxury of doing in my own home), I didn’t feel like gracing the internet with my presence.


I have gotten some work done on my chapter (yay!), I have gotten installed in my new apartment (yay!) and I have internet again (y… nay? Yay-but-with-a-hestitation-because-I-know-this-will-slow-my-progress-down-nay?). While I fully intend to retreat back to hermit mode as soon as this is written (only interrupted by the hours I have to be at work), I did have a reason to type this today. June 1st is a big day, not just because I get to say bye-bye to my chapter for a few days (wish I could say for life…), but also because that is the day that the Burrow is launching this year’s greatest event – BuNoWriMo! It’s gonna be LEGEND – wait for it – DARY! (I really have watched too much “HIMYM”…)

Those of you who have been suffering with me for a while will know that back in November I allowed myself to be talked into participating in NaNoWriMo. NaNoWriMo (short for National[though it has long since become international] Novel Writing Month) takes place every year in November. The purpose of NaUhmHowDoYouSpellItAgain is to write a novel of 50 000 words in just one short month. It’s crazy, and yet it is also quite efficient, since the short time frame and the support of other participants really make it seem possible (and it is – in 2008 more than 21 000 participants managed to complete the task). Last year many of my blogging friends, including several members of the Burrow (my writing group, which I am sure by now most of you know all about) participated. A few of them proved that it is possible to write a novel in one month. Some proved that participating in NaWhatWasIt was the kick-start they needed to finish a novel shortly thereafter. And some of us proved that November really is a sucky month to try to achieve the impossible; especially if you are working in retail where the holiday season in crazy as it is, if you are working in or taking any kind of education where November often is terribly busy because of pending exams, and especially especially if you are doing both (yours truly). I never finished my NaNoWiP in November, and it’s been hanging around on my hard drive ever since, feeling sulky and abandoned.

Since the Burrow experienced a certain amount of success in last year’s NaNoI’mNotGonnaTryToThinkOfMoreCleverWaysOfSpellingItFromNowOn, it was suggested that we should try to host our own novel writing month. After all, if it is possible to write a whole novel during one month, in theory you should be able to write eleven more that year, right…? While twelve-a-year might be a stretch, a second one-month-written novel should definitely be possible to achieve. And since we’re the ones hosting it, we get to decide when. June was much more convenient for several of us, and so it was decided. We even made our own catchy name (with a few elements borrowed from the original) – BuNoWriMo.

To make the experience even more fun (if you can call giving labour to an elephant fun, which is the best comparison I have at the moment to how momentous the idea of writing anything at all feels, after having struggled with this ruddy chapter for way too long) and rewarding (after all, who wouldn’t want to become an author – I am sure they all make as much money as Dan Brown) – (I just completely killed that sentence and impossibilized ending it in the fashion I had planned... Let me try again…)

To make the experience even more fun and rewarding we are inviting others. That is right, others, that means you! There are not a lot of rules (the normal NaNoHingISaidIWouldn’tDoThisAgain rules apply, except that we’re starting June 1st and finishing on June 30th. We’re not terribly strict on rules, though, as will be clarified below). The only unabandonable rule is that you have to have a Facebook account to participate, as we figured making a separate message board/website/physical-access-point-equally-easily-accessible-from-anywhere-in-the-world was too much of a hassle. Thus we are doing all the motivational group dances and such from the BuNoWriMo Facebook Group. Anyone can join, but we are at the moment asking people to request invites to make sure that the organizational phase goes as smoothly as possible (actually, it is so that we can be sure that Stephenie Meyer doesn’t join. Just kidding. No, I’m not. I think I am). This means that you kind of have to have a Facebook account to participate, but I don’t think it means you have to be/become our Facebook friend (though you can, if you want to. I’m trying to be inclusive here…). One suggestion from Tami over at Confessions of a Watery Tart is that you create a pen name Facebook account if you don’t want to mix your personal profile with your secret novel writing alias (or, you know, if you are Stephenie Meyer).

Finally, if you’re thinking that you’re not up for writing a whole novel in June, or if you are wishing that you instead of being asked to start a new project could just get some motivation to finish an old one, this is also the place for you. We love our rebels in the Burrow, and just as NaNoNoNoStop!Please! offers a route for those who just want to join in but not stick to the rules, so do we. Personally I struggle with finishing things, not beginning them. So I thought this might be a good opportunity to finish last year’s NaNoSeriouslyNotDoneYet?WorkInProgress. I’m starting at 15 000 words. If I end at 65 000 that would be awesome, but I would be very happy if I touch the 50 000 mark as well. Frankly, I’d be happy to get anything written at all. I’m hoping that the community spirit, the locked time frame and the brief pause from my thesis might be just what I need to get cracking.

So, have I convinced you yet? If you, or someone you know, or even Stephenie Meyer, have a desire to join in on the fun (and stress and panic and anger and sleeplessness and back pains and caffeine addiction), contact me or any of the other Burrow members with your Facebook account name, and an invitation shall be sent in your general direction.



The BuNoWriMo logo is designed by Joris Ammerlaan, who can be reached at "jorisammerlaan at gmail dot com"