On Good and Bad Bosses

Being a PhD student (especially in Norway, where it is paid employment) is in many ways a sweet deal. You get to spend time working on exactly the thing you're (supposed to be) most interested in. You get to have a narrow focus on a topic so specific (and often insignificant) that most people know next to nothing about it. You get to become an expert on this topic. You get to devote time, energy, intellectual capacity and whatever skills you've developed over time on working on just one, single issue that need not be of any particular interest or use to anyone else (though naturally you have learnt how to argue that indeed it is of particular interest and use to everyone else - you've gotten some kind of funding for this project, after all...). You get to do all this for a longer period of time, usually about three to four years, and in the meantime very few people are going to bother you in any significant way with meeting deadlines, making progress or doing any of the most basic things most employees are expected to do in their jobs: show up at a specific time, show up at all, actually work...

Of course this latter point isn't entirely true.

First of all, most universities will by now have instated some kind of checks and balances system to keep a little control of their PhD students. It will still vary greatly from institution to institution how rigid this system is, but I would guesstimate that you nowhere anymore can do what seems to have been the "norm" many places in the past - you show up at the start of your doctorate and then nobody sees you again for four (or more) years until you show up again for your defense with a 1000 page dissertation.

These days there are some requirements. You have to take some courses (here I know Norway is still on the lighter side. In many places it still is more than justified to call the PhD students students, as they do plenty of course work and have papers due and everything - our system is more flexible and it can be argued that it is just as correct to call me and my peers PhD fellows). You generally will have some deadlines along the way (we, for instance, have a halfway evaluation, which I will take sometime this summer or autumn). And technically I am supposed to show up for work during work hours at any time I don't have a justifiable reason not to do so (a conference, field work, those courses I talked about), but in reality I am fairly sure I could stay at home for several weeks at end and no one would notice (except my office mate, but she wouldn't tell on me, and a simple Facebook message saying "Working from home for a while" would put her at ease). And even if they did notice, it wouldn't have any consequences.*

Many of the requirements, then, are more for show than actually breathing down your neck like the proverbial distrusting boss would do.

However, I do have one of those bosses as well. The problem is that she is not always a good boss. And before you jump to conclusions about me slandering my boss in social media, I should clarify: I'm talking about myself. (My real boss is a man, so there.)

My Bad Boss - me - isn't always a bad boss. The not bad part is what makes her a boss at all. Because in a system where so little pressure is put on you for any day-to-day production (but HUGE pressure on the long haul production with the far-ahead deadline way out of your sight), you really need to pull yourself together and force yourself to do some work every now and then. You need to be your own boss. You need to tell yourself what your tasks are, and then you need to do them. Otherwise, you've already lost.

On occasion this works for me. I can have whole days and several days in a row, even, where I work like a normal person (one of those with real bosses), and get stuff done. My Good Boss manages to give me clear instructions and as a Good Employee (because I am, honestly, even if this post so far might suggest otherwise) I get it done.

This is improvement on my part.

I remember when I wrote my master's thesis I was absolutely horrid at getting stuff done. Every word came at an insufferable price - it felt like I had to pull them out of me like fingernails from a torture victim (you're welcome for that mental picture).

This is because then I only** had the Bad Boss. The Bad Boss still comes around too frequently for me to be particularly happy about it, though. The Bad Boss doesn't motivate me or give me instructions; the Bad Boss tells me that the final deadline is coming closer with every day (well, duh!). She tells me that I have a come nearly halfway in my PhD, but I have not produced half of the text for a PhD dissertation (and my objections that I have done plenty of other useful stuff that doesn't necessarily reflect the amount of output you can touch and feel but nevertheless contributes to the end result have no traction with her). My Bad Boss makes me feel insecure, worried, and generally pretty useless.

My Bad Boss most frequently visits when I am tired, hungry, stressed out, or that one week of the month where most women feel more insecure, worried and useless (if you're a man and you've no idea what I'm talking about, I envy you and I'm about to punch you in the face. Go away. Bring me chocolate before coming back).

Most annoying of all - my Bad Boss makes me a Bad Employee. And as I mentioned, I am not really a Bad Employee. I am a Good Employee. Whenever Good Boss is around it's pretty visible too, so you don't even have to take my word for it.

So. Like a terrible academic*** I have arrived at the problem far too long into the text I'm writing. In order for me to be a Good and Productive Employee, I need my Good Boss to speak louder and more frequently than my Bad Boss. But how do I do this?

Like an even more terrible academic I was very close to ending my text with a question. Because a question, at this point, is about as good as I can do. I don't really have an answer. I can't predict when the Bad Boss will show up, or how long she intend to stay (though I can of course try to avoid the situations I know she is most likely to appear, but even so - it's not like I can avoid work one week every month, no matter how relaxed the system might seem).

My best bet is on the realization that I have a Bad Boss, and that I have a Good Boss. I know there are two of them. So for the times when it feels like only the Bad Boss is the one showing her ugly face, I can try to tell myself that she will not linger forever. The Good Boss will show up eventually. In fact, if I manage to ignore the Bad Boss she sometimes tires of pestering me, and goes away all on her own. Sometimes, sometimes, even the Good Boss pops her head in directly after, just to check on me.****

So it boils down to this: I need to get rid of my Bad Boss but I should probably also be aware that she will never disappear completely, but rather keep in mind she will also never stay put for good.



҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉



*For the record, I also have a supervisor, and she is very active, and she probably would notice both my absence for longer stretches of time and definitely my failure to meet deadlines and produce text. So in my case the potential slacking off has a very real limit. But not every supervisor is as active or attentive, so it is not entirely impossible that you would find cases where not even he or she would know if the PhD student had stopped working altogether for a loooong while.

** This is a truth that needs some moderation. I did write the damn thesis, and it's not all bad, so at some point the Good Boss must have been around then as well. But it didn't feel like it - I suspect maybe the Good Boss simply was a deputy back then, and thus did not really dare to challenge the authority of the Bad Boss. At least that is my theory. I am glad that the Good Boss' career has taken an upward turn!

*** For some reason I really want to write "academidian" instead. But then my Bad Boss told me I could not justify a title clearly derived from a crossover between academic and comedian. As I am neither (can you see what this hag is doing to me? I need her to GO AWAY!!! And not come back - not even with chocolate).

**** Sometimes she brings chocolate! :)

On words to the wiser*

"It is important to note that..." doesn't meant that something is important.

"I have fixed every edit you suggested" doesn't mean that no more edits are required (or even that you actually fixed what I suggested).

"I've been ill the last three days before the deadline" isn't an acceptable excuse for not having used the previous thirty days before that, also included in your deadline.

"I don't know how to improve this text" is not a cue for me to jump in with a cure.






*Note: in this case I am myself the wiser. Or the unwiser. Or at least the person in need of taking my own advice. By admitting this I am, of course, in no way suggesting that there might not also be others in need of taking this advice...

On construction - a manifesto

"We construct history."

My current employment force me to think about such things on a daily basis. The idea is that the questions asked  will make my students think about issues they previously (possibly) have taken for granted. In reality, I suspect I'm the one learning the most from the experience. The students are goal-oriented; they have to be, given that they will need to pass their exams when the time comes. I am also eager to have them pass the exam, but I feel that in addition I have an agenda which is to not have an agenda. Studying with the
freedom to roam through personal experience in a field that has become mine with time - it's powerful.

Nevertheless, an agenda is constructed as I realize the more I learn of these things, the more insecure I become. Because, I realize, for the first time - really, properly - I am reflecting over what my field really is. What is history?

"History is not identical with the past, nor a reflection of it. The past is what we study; history is how we interpret the past."

It's my history, because I'm the one studying it. Certainly, there are limitations, and still a tendency to strive towards wie es eigentlich gewesen, even if we long since accepted that we can never completely know exactly what happened in the past. But we try to present it in ways that are as close to what you might call a "truth" (with all the limitations that term entails) as possible. We try not to invent or make up history, even if we do construct it.

I've constructed as different histories as modern Norwegian foreign policy, medieval political thought and current Middle Eastern conflict this semester. I'm working hard to tie them all to the ultimate history for a historian: why are we studying this? Why is this important? Why is history important (especially given that you just told us that we construct it, Ms. Teacher...)?

Why is history important?

It is easier, perhaps, to answer such a question in mode negative: why is not knowing history a bad thing?

A shameful and terrible accusation, that, being denominated "unhistorical" (historieløs). Having no concept of background and context, not realizing the importance of such things.

At the same time - doesn't it sound almost liberating, not having to take in the grievances of times past, simply worrying about the contemporary? Perhaps a certain unhistoricalness would be exactly what could solve troubles in well-known conflicts worldwide? What wold happen in the Middle East if no one knew what have already happened there? Can we learn from history? It doesn't seem that way. Can it aggravate us to make the same mistakes over and over again? Well... Maybe.

It is all too easy for historians, when pondering such questions, to end up without a backbone in the skeleton of our own profession. We're left with a pile of bones and no idea how to stitch them back together. Can we even call ourselves a science? Is there anything we can know for sure? Is history important?



Lesigh. Yes. Yes, it's important. Perhaps especially because we doubt ourselves. And definitely because we construct it. Certainly because - and despite - the fact that it is difficult to answer the question "why is it important?".

Everyone knows, intuitively, that history is important. Not being able to explain why, exactly, is what drives us ("us", as in "historians") to constantly question ourselves and our own profession, which in turn makes us excellent analysts. We are critical as few (several meanings of the word, yes; pun intended). We pose questions we might never get to answer satisfactorily, but we are nevertheless brave enough to ask them.

The construction of history - whether the interpretation of events past; or "history", the discipline - is key. It is what we need to do. It is what makes history important.


No wonder my students are confused.

On seven years (not in Tibet)

Seven years ago I was 19, soon to-be 20. I was a second-year student at the university, studying International Relations. I had successfully overcome the panicky transition from living at home in my little town, to mastering "big city" life (not that Oslo is *that* big, but compared to my hometown it's not so bad). I'd made friends - two of which I was living with in a shared apartment (still one of the best living arrangements I've experienced). I still visited my parents a lot, and occasionally worked weekend and summer shifts at the local bookstore there, were I'd earned my first wages when I was still in high school. This was at the time when one of my biggest obsessions - the Harry Potter books - still was an obsession.

Seven years ago I did not know that I would spend a considerable amount of the next seven years abroad. I did not know that I'd be privileged enough to meet so many wonderful people; see such amazing things; taste, smell, feel, experience a plethora (and yet a minimal part) of what the world has to offer. I did not know that the people I then knew would in some cases stay with me, some would drift away, and some whose importance I did not realize then are now among those I hold nearest to heart.

Seven years ago I did not know much about the Middle East. I did not realize how an analytic perspective to a historical problem changes the whole concept and our understanding of it. I did not have the same vocabulary I do now, and I did not know how to best employ the words I did have. Ironically, I had more words then in a language I long since have put in the back of my mind - my French is definitely not one of things that have improved during these years.

Seven years ago I was in the middle of a process of redefining myself. Today I am in the middle of a process of redefining myself. I have constantly been in the middle of that process, and I constantly will. It's a never-ending process, and you're always in the middle of it. To paraphrase Dr. Who (whom I'd never heard of seven years ago, whom I've not yet come to appreciate today, but whom I fully expect to have learned to love sometime within the next seven years) : Time is not linear. As a historian (which I had no idea seven years ago I'd denominate myself) it's tricky not to see time as linear. But as a human being, I find it increasingly easy. We do not know when it will end. We do not remember when it started. Everything in between happens with such vigor and surprise that we cannot manage to sort it into the nice, tidy line we'd like time to be. No one shall be able to convince me that the 24 hours spent dreading an exam or an important presentation pass in the same amount of time as the 24 hours in any other given day - even though I rationally know it to be so. Rationality is overrated. I did not know that either, seven years ago.

Seven years is a long time, or a really short one - depending on your perspective. I was a different person back then, at the same time as I haven't really changed. My perspective has changed. My horizon has widened. I've exposed myself to education from both books, travels, and life. I've felt happiness, grief, fear, excitement, anger. I've lived, and I've learned. I hope to continue doing so, because I have no idea what the next seven years have to offer. I am eager to find out.












This post was inspired by a conversation on Facebook where my friend Stacy tried to figure out how long this group of friends had known each other. We met through a Harry Potter fansite (which is no longer active, sadly), and most of us have still only known each other online (though some have gotten together IRL over the years). We were all a little amazed to realize that it's been (approximately) seven years. The thought of everything that's happened since triggered a bit of a stroll down memory lane on my part. My HPANA-peeps are still among those I feel closest to, even though we've never had that much in common except a book series now concluded. Funny how that sometimes is enough to tie people together. Also one thing I've learned these past seven years.

On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

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 Manhattan

I wish I was on Manhattan.

Not just because Norway is exceptionally cold and snowy today, and a vacation would be just what I need at the moment...

Imagine walking down the streets of Manhattan, running into Carrie and Mr. Big. Or maybe you can drop in on some old friends in "Central Perk". Or the more physical Central Park.
There is something about Manhattan - how it is portrayed in popular culture - that paints such an interesting and amazing picture (like the one above). The rest of New York has its merits too, I'm sure, but Manhattan? The home of the rich and beautiful and cool and successful? Who wouldn't dream of going there?


Why, then, did they have to ruin this picture-perfect place with taking its name for one of the biggest atrocities in human history? I am reading up on "The Manhattan Project", and I don't much like what I'm reading. Military-industrial complexes, Big Science, world politics, a quick end to an already too long war - I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that people were willing to develop and construct a weapon that spread into two separate bombs killed 150,000-250,000 - about half of them immediately, and the rest within the next few months. Not to mention the after effects from the radiation. Add to that how nuclear weapons held the world hostage during the next fifty years, and how it is still considered one of the worst threats should it fall into the wrong hands. (Or, as I'm prone to believe - all hands are wrong when it comes to nukes. The question is whether those hands will pull the trigger.)

I know. What a turn this post took. I'm complicated that way.

On decency and safety: how playing it safe occasionally is hazardous

This is a tale of the importance of a safety pin, and how choosing safety in one department, very well might put you at risk in another.


Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.

For instance. I have a reflex.

Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)

The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!

Yes, what about Alaska?

Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:

"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"

Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...

I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)

Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.

However, that might be subject to change.

On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.

Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?

I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.

So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.

The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.

As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.

And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)

It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.

At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.

This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.

It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.

Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.

In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.

Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.

So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.

The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:

"Reflexes save lives"; and

"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."

I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.

The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.

On being ambushed and interrogated by nine-year-olds

GIRL IN PINK: Hello, what are you taking a picture of?

ME: The school.

GIRL IN PINK: Why?

ME: Because this used to be my school. A long time ago.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Why is she taking a picture?

GIRL IN PINK: Because this used to be her school. A long time ago.

ME: Maybe someday this will be your school too?

GIRL IN PINK: Yeah, but in a really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really long time. We're only in the third grade.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Even if I should be in the fourth grade, because I am nine.

GIRL IN PINK: But you're in the third grade.

GIRL IN PURPLE: But I'm nine. Because my mom says so. And she knows better than anyone. There's this girl that says that I'm only seven or six, but I'm not.

GIRL IN PINK: What is she talking about? You're not!

GIRL IN PURPLE: And I'm moving in just five weeks and that's not a long time.

ME: No, that's not...

GIRL IN PINK: What's your name?

ME: It's..

GIRL IN PURPLE: How old are you?

ME: I'm twenty-fi...

GIRL IN PINK: Do you have any kids?

ME: No.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Do you have a mommy?

ME: Yes.

GIRL IN PINK: Are you married?

ME: No.

GIRL IN PURPLE: What's your mommy's name?

GIRL IN PINK: Why don't you have kids?

GIRL IN PURPLE: Do you have a husband?

GIRL IN PINK: She doesn't have a husband.

GIRL IN PURPLE: Oh. Why don't you get married to your boyfriend?

ME: Well, I don't...

GIRL IN PINK: When will you have kids?

ME: I don't know if I'll...

GIRL IN PINK: You must have kids! It's much funner with kids!

ME: Funnier. It's much funnier.... And some people don't want kids or don't want to get married.

GIRL IN PINK: Don't you want to get married?!

ME: I don't know, maybe, someday.

GIRL IN PURPLE: What's your boyfriend's name?

ME: I don't have...

GIRL IN PINK: Do you work?

ME: Not right now, no.

GIRL IN PINK: Good! Because then you can stay at home with the kids, while your husband works!

ME: Now, hang on. It's a good things for mommies to work too, you know. Then you can make your own money, and do something worthwhile and fun with your life.

GIRL IN PURPLE: My teacher works all the time, she is really awesome! She makes trees out of paper.

ME: That's great!

GIRL IN PURPLE: And then we can make them too, because she shows us how.

GIRL IN PINK: But we're done with making those now. So will you think about having kids?

ME: I'll think about it.

GIRL IN PINK: Think hard about it, okay?

On proletarianization

I'm finally making some use of myself. My parents - who are being extraordinarily generous by housing, feeding and catering to my every need in a way only parents can do without it getting awkward - will occasionally ask me to do small favours in return for the hospitality they are showing me. Naturally, I do these things. Clean the bathroom, make dinner, go grocery shopping; it's the least I can do considering how kind they've been and are to me. Yet, I never feel that it's adequate - the favours they do me easily add up to much more than I can ever hope to repay them. So when they asked me to do a large-ish favour - help paint the house and garage - I was (if not thrilled...) happy to oblige.

Since I've been writing job applications lately, I've focused on stuff I'm good at. Like writing reports, or being a loyal employee and colleague, or being able to work both in teams and independently. I've been focusing very little on stuff I'm not good at. Like painting houses.

I felt terribly, terribly out of place. Like the stereotypical city girl, with her high heels and pink nails, trying to do good, old-fashioned manual labour. (I did not have high heels. I did, however, have pink nails...) I couldn't figure out how to secure the ladder. I didn't know how much soap to use for the water (like any good painter should do, I cleaned the wall first, of course). I showered myself in cold water in an attempt of getting the water pressure on the hose up to proper levels (I eventually managed. Okay. My dad eventually managed).

And yet, it felt pretty good. I was outdoors, working, being useful. Then it struck me, how interesting the experience actually was, from a historian's point of view.

The garage was originally built by my grandfather - who has been dead for eighteen years - some fifty, sixty years ago. He was a conductor in the national railway company, but he grew up on a small farm deep in the Norwegian forests. As the son of a farmer, he doubtlessly had to learn all sorts of manual labour - including building houses. So when he had gathered the means, he built one for himself, his wife, and two sons. My grandmother still lives in that house. We live next doors, on a lot bought by my grandfather with his eldest son - my father - in mind.

The garage was built a few years after the house. After all, they had to have a car first. And not just any car. I still remember the smell of my grandparent's Volvo Amazon. The shine of its bright red hue. The lack of nonsensical things such as seat-belts in the back seat. The ash tray, which was always filled with candy since neither of my grandparents smoked.

By the time I was old enough to pay attention, the Amazon lived in a new garage that had replaced the old one, and our house was built on the aforementioned neighbouring lot. The original garage, which now was closer to our house than our grandparents', was turned into a shed. My father - handy in many ways, but not build-your-own-house-handy - did lots of work on our house. But so did a team of 15 carpenters, plus my two grandfathers.

With time the old garage is not as impressive as it once was. Still. It impresses me to think that my grandfather actually did build it. He had those kind of skills. Half a century later, his granddaughter, pink nails and all, struggled to wash and paint the walls he once put up. I doubtlessly have skills he did not - I'm sure he'd be rubbish at writing reports, for instance - but it's a two-way street. It's humbling, really, to think of everything people used to take for granted, that now have become huge tasks because we've let go of the knowledge previously transmitted from generation to generation.

In the end I suspect it's fortunate for me that the times have changed. If I ever build a house, I probably will not even touch a hammer. I won't take much part in the construction process post-planning at all, and I wouldn't have the skills to do so even if I wanted to. On the other hand, I might be able to pay for that house because I got a good education and (hopefully) a job.

At least I've learned a thing or two about painting houses today, should I ever have one of my own. All thanks to my grandfather.

On job hunting

With Japan still in the blue for me, it's time to consider other options. At any rate I meant to start looking for jobs towards the middle of my stay in Tokyo, and we are approaching that "deadline" even with me not being in the country at the moment. So, I'm updating my resume, trying to check out listings, searching the web and talking to friends and family about potential places to start looking.

I've also been thinking about job applications and what (hopefully) comes after the application – the interview. One of the things you will often be asked in an interview is to list three good and bad sides about yourself.

Let’s start with the bad. The worst answer of all is that you have no bad sides. This only comes off as arrogant and it reveals a lack of self-insight (which is a bad side). Instead, it is common for interviewees to try to pick bad sides that are possible to work on, or sides that also can be advantages. At the same time, it is important to be honest. Don’t say your worst side is your impatience just because you’ve heard this can translate to “getting things done”. And don’t say “I can never say no” unless it is absolutely true – chances are the interviewers will have heard both of those before.

I tried to think about my actual worst sides – at least those who affect work. Because some of my bad sides don’t affect my work – I can be terribly messy at home, but I’m far more organized at work, for instance. One problem I have encountered with my thesis and in my work life is a double-edged sword: I can (have had to, in fact) work independently, but I far prefer working in a team, getting feedback, having someone that depends on me. That is the best way I can employ my potential;  I perform better when I am not making all the decisions myself.

It is definitely a disadvantage because many job listings specifically mention “the ability to work independently” as one thing they are looking for. At the same time, I have shown that I can work independently, for instance by finishing my studies. In other words; this weakness of mine is something I consciously try to work on. Also, the fact that I prefer feedback suggests that I am a team player – which most employers value in their employees.

The bad sides were difficult, but ironically it was even harder to list my good sides. My work ethics, my loyalty, the qualities and abilities I have acquired through my education and experience – how to determine which ones are more attractive for the job? When applying for the job in Japan, I decided to go for my ability to adapt to new environments. The fact that I settle quickly, am a fast and eager learner and that I generally have a positive outlook were among the qualities that made me suitable for that position. For other jobs, I might rate other qualities higher. 

As a side effect of this exercise, however, I learned something about myself. It felt good to say something nice about myself. I gave myself a compliment, and I liked it. Thus, I have a challenge for you: skip the bad sides for today, but think through what your good sides are. Try to come up with at least three. If you want, post them in the comments section. Don’t be shy – it will feel good J

On mingling

One of the more common stereotypes about diplomatic life is that ambassadors and their staff do little more than attend cocktail parties. This is not true. They also attend luncheons and dinners.

I’m joking. Life at the embassy has taught me that a very large portion of the work takes part in front of a computer, and in meetings. The diplomats take pride in representing their country abroad, and this means more than small talk over long drinks. Still, small talk over long drinks is indeed a part of the job, and since part of my job is to take part in every aspect of the embassy work, I also get to attend some of these events.

Cocktail parties and other similar events involve mingling. This is an art I have yet to master. First of all it is difficult enough to start a conversation with complete strangers; secondly I find it difficult to leave said conversation to go talk to someone else.

To initiate a conversation with someone the first step is usually to introduce yourself. Your name, and your occupation. In many professional events it is also common to exchange business cards. In Japan, this is not only common, it is crucial. My current problem is that I haven’t yet gotten a business card, both because I am new in the job, but more importantly because the embassy phone system have been changed since I got here, so I was asked to hold off ordering business cards until the new numbers were cleared.

In many parts of the world, this would be problematic, but not catastrophic. In Japan, it is social suicide. The business cards exchange is more than just an exchange of contact information. Actually, the tradition is similar to the well known Japanese gift exchange – a symbolic gesture that requires both parties to give something of similar value to the other party. There is much ceremony to this; the business card is supposed to be presented with both hands, and it is polite to read what’s on the other party’s card before pocketing it.

I cannot tell you how many times I have had to explain that I don’t have a card yet. It is outrageous. Nobody does not have a card. If you exist, you have a card. And if you meet someone else who exists, you will give them your card and expect to receive one back.

And yet, I think I have seen relief in some people I’ve met when I’ve told them I cannot participate in this ritual just yet. One less pointless card to throw away when they get home. Because surely, nobody keeps all the cards they receive? As mentioned, the exchange of business cards isn’t necessarily about exchanging contact information – no one expects you to actually stay in touch with all these people. What interest do you actually have to stay in touch with somebody you randomly met at a party, whose work and life does not at all overlap with your own, when knowing that your only mutual meeting point forever will be only this one party?

We’re back to the core of why mingling is difficult. Because there are mostly strangers, you don’t know who it will be interesting to talk to. You have to take a chance and start talking to whomever stands close by, or who’s eyes you meet, or who is standing in a half circle so that it is possible to sneak in without interrupting too much. And then you ideally should have an exit strategy in case you discover that all the people in the half circle are talking about the usage of microchips in fusion-powered transportation systems. Or some other technical dippedidoodaat you don’t understand.

As mentioned, it can be equally hard to get out of a mingle-situation as it is to get in. Once you’ve gotten through all the obligatory small talk, you have to find a way to stay interested and interesting, otherwise the conversation obviously will stall quite quickly. The awkward silences that follow are even more awkward if the other party also is not too good at mingling. You are both too polite to just leave, none of you are able to think of an excuse to leave, and yet, you’re not able to think of anything interesting to say.

The other pitfall is to get into too deep a conversation. Often I find that when asking about other people’s work, they tend to get comfortable in the conversation, since it’s (hopefully) a topic they know very well. A lot of people are very passionate about their work. The other night I talked to an archeologist who specialized in ancient ship wrecks. How cool is that? He was like the Indiana Jones of the Sea! We talked for a long time about his work, my studies, and about the incomprehensibly cold relationship between historians and archeologists. I would have liked to continue to talk to him, but since I felt obliged to mingle, that wasn’t really an option.

See, you’re not supposed to have long conversations in these settings. First of all it ruins the point of the event for yourself – networking is not-working if the net consists of only one very detailed mesh (stitch? Loop? My metaphor is failing me…). Secondly, it ruins the point of the event for everyone else – if two people are immersed in deep conversation all night; these are two people less to mingle with. If everyone is doing it, no one is networking. Third, there is always the chance that the interesting conversation you think you’re having isn’t all that interesting for the other party. He or she is probably there to meet more people than just you, and even though they might enjoy speaking to you, there is a great chance that the main reason they haven’t left the conversation to go speak to the ones they really came there to meet is that they too are too polite to leave without an excuse.

Thus, mingling is a tricky business. If done right – lots of limited small talk, exchanging contact information (or in Japan, business cards whether you expect to stay in touch or not), quickly establishing which people are useful to talk to and who are just there to enjoy the free drinks – it can be an effective way of networking. If done my way, it is a study in awkward silences and pointless conversations.

I obviously need more training in this, and fortunately, this stay gives me ample opportunities to do so. I just need to print a business card first! 

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 Socrates

Socrates, the philosopher, supposedly said that the only true wisdom lies in knowing that you know nothing.

I must be really wise, then.

It is humbling, really, to be able to work with a research project of a magnitude that whenever I think I almost have the hang of it, I only discover that there are new things popping up. Things I haven't considered. Things I really should consider. I keep getting the feeling that I could easily devote my life to writing my thesis, and it still would never be entirely done.

I started out, two years ago, knowing nothing more about the Middle East and the conflict(s) there than the average newspaper reader does. I dived into the subject - took out every book there was in the library, and even managed to read some of them. I copied off articles to read. I wrote a project proposal. I held a "test lecture" for two professors as part of my exams. I did everything I could to make sure I knew everything I had to know about what was going to become the topic of my master's thesis.

And yet. Every time I opened a new book there was a new aspect. Something I hadn't thought about. Something that changed my perception of what I was working on completely - over and over again. No matter how deep I penetrated the problems I was working with, I continued to return to my starting point. There was still much more I didn't know about this conflict than what I did know.

I wrote a chapter. I read some more. I went to the US, where I spent the greater part of my time in an archive. I've read through thousands of documents. I've categorized them, analyzed them, written about them. I've read more books. I've written more chapters. I've talked to professors, and fellow students and other who have worked with this conflict.

I have done everything that was possible for someone with my resources and capacity to understand the topic of my thesis, and to make it comprehensible for others. Looking back, I can see my learning curve has been steep. Reading my first project proposal makes me cringe, because I am now able to see flaws, inconsistencies and imprecise formulations in every paragraph.

Despite this, however, I still feel like there are light-years to go. There are more books and articles and papers than I can fathom written about the very thing I try to make sense of. Then why in the world am I trying to write another one? I have no idea. I am supposed to have a brilliant answer to that, and it is supposed to go on page 8, circa, of my introduction chapter, which currently is a mess.

Regardless of all my hard work - or because of it, actually - I am still left with the feeling that I know nothing. I suspect that this is the way it will be. And I'm starting to wonder if it isn't also how it's supposed to be. The more I learn, the deeper I go in my research, I will only find that there is more left to explore. I will never reach a total understanding of the conflict I am supposed to be an expert of - nor would I of any other subject. It's just not possible. The more I search for answers, the more questions I come up with.

In the end, isn't that what research is all about? Perhaps Socrates had it right?

On new beginnings

August is still summer, but it is also the start of autumn (or fall if you will). Berries are ripe. People are picking pears outside my bedroom window. I crave vegetable soup. The sun is still hot, but the days aren’t long and light anymore. The night is once again dark.


August has always been a month of beginnings for me. Much more than, say, January. August is the month school starts. After 18 first-day-of-school’s, new school supplies still make me excited. I love stocking up on pens, post-its, paper, pencils (is it a rule that all school supplies start with a p?), and books (no, apparently not). A new year at school always meant new subjects, new classrooms, often new people. A new term at the university has some of the same implications. This term, however, I don’t get a lot of the “new” feelings since it’s just a continuation of what I left before the summer. And frankly, this time it also feels more like the beginning of the end. Which I guess it sort of is.

Unless something unexpected and life-altering happens, this will be the last semester I’m working on my master’s thesis. I’m not saying I will never take another class, but for all intents and purposes, I am looking at the start of my very last semester at the university. My last semester of formal education. Hopefully my last semester before I get a “grown up” job (why do I feel like knocking on wood right about now…?).

I have tried to work on my thesis this summer, but in between working extra hours in the bookshop, having a social life and trying to see the sun every now and then I haven’t been all that diligent. Also, I’ve had a bad case of vacation mode, and I’ve been spending far more time on blog writing than any other kind of writing. Ah, well.

With the new semester starting today, it is time to accept that I can no longer keep neglecting my thesis. Because this will be a stressful semester for me, and in the spirit of new beginnings, I think it is time to announce a new blog schedule.

This summer I’ve kept a fairly strict Monday to Friday schedule. While I enjoy the regularity of that, I no longer see myself capable of keeping it up. Thus my new plan is to blog on Mondays and Fridays, and if I post any other day you can consider it a bonus. I will still try to visit as many of your lovely blogs as possible, in fact I suspect that I will be able to be a more frequent visitor when I’m not spending as much time writing my own posts. In addition I am still writing posts for the Burrow Blog, and on the days I am posting there I will probably leave a note here as well. I’ll still make sure to read and reply to all of your comments, of course.

New beginnings can be scary because we are usually afraid to give up on what we know. But at the same time new beginnings create a unique opportunity to start over on a clean slate. I’m hoping that I will be able to carry with me all the good things from previous semesters and leave behind any bad habits.

Wish me luck!

(Apparently I am not so great with new beginnings since I forgot to schedule this to post this morning, and instead saved it as a draft. Great start... I did not notice till now, though, so this means that my tactic of not compulsively checking my blog for comments every ten minutes is working.)

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 and off again

My blogging dependability goes up and down like a roller coaster when that little something I like to call “Life” (with a big L) gets out of hand. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with how busy I am – I managed to keep a regular routine in October last year, for instance, even though I was up and down and all about trying to make the most out of my last month living in the US. The last few weeks I have not acted very busy, and yet it felt as though my stress levels were at an all time high. I felt busy. I should have been busy. But in reality, I only was mentally busy.


Friday was the day I should have celebrated that two years of hard work on my thesis was over. Instead, I was celebrating that most of my friends were done with their hard work. Don’t get me wrong, I was very happy for them. But there is a special kind of bitterness reserved for occasions when you should have been happy for yourself and only get to be happy for others. I managed to keep a brave face for most of the celebration, and rationally I am perfectly capable of admitting that postponing my thesis is not a defeat but a wise decision seeing as this way I’ll be able to actually write one… However, I can assure you that most of the drinks I had on Friday were not celebratory ones, but drinks intended to drown sorrows (which they quite efficiently did, even if I have always been told that sorrows can swim).

That was Friday. Then came Saturday, when I had a few friends over, again largely to celebrate them finishing their theses (while mine has been largely dormant for a while. I think my blogging dependability is similar in essence to my thesis writing dependability. Life gets in the way, somehow). However bitter I might have been deep down inside, though, I had a good time on both Friday and Saturday. Great friends and great wine saw to that. On Sunday, however, I paid the cost for having drowned sorrows two days in a row, and the only thing I could muster the energy to do was bake a cake. Why, you say? Well, surely, you didn’t think we were done celebrating just yet?

On Monday it wasn’t university related, though. May 17th is Norway’s Constitutional Day, which we famously celebrate more thoroughly than most nations. There are national costumes (the bunad), children’s parades, flags, marching bands, hotdogs, ice cream, singing, games, alcohol, cakes (aha!), and general festiveness involved. Most shops, any public offices, hing - even private offices, banks and museums and whatnot – they’re all closed. Everyone has the day off, everyone dresses up, everyone participates in the celebrations. Oslo, a remotely populated city in international terms, suddenly becomes Bombay or Tokyo. There are people everywhere. I spent close to 20 minutes crossing the street, and 20 more trying to locate some friends I was meeting in a space no bigger than 100x50 meters. So it’s crowded.

I had a great time, as I always do on May 17th. It did nothing to help me get my mind back into the right frame for blogging and/or writing my thesis, though. And the fact that my laptop has been showing signs of early dementia did not help.

I’ve gone through (more than) my share of laptops the past few years. Yes, I use my laptops all the time. No, I don’t think that should be a reason for them breaking down all the time. My first one, Laptop the First, was brand new when I moved to Oslo six years ago. It stood with me through thick and thin, it travelled continents and it fought on my side when I battled term papers during my first years at the university. However, three years old it decided that enough was enough. It very nearly died several times, and when I took it to get it repaired, there was nothing they could do. They informed me that it would slowly be reduced until one day it would be entirely dead.

Sad as that was, I couldn’t go laptopless (a term my friend Tara coined a while ago), now could I? So I invested in a new machine. It was shiny and new and wonderful and – broken. Right from the start. I took it back. They claimed I only needed to reinstall the operative system. I think I did that three times, along with several other attempts to figure out what was the matter with Laptop the Second. After eight months, however, I finally managed to convince the shop to take it back and return my money. Thus, I went looking for Laptop the Third. Laptop the Third and I immediately hit it off. We’ve been together for a year and a half now, and once again I felt that I had found a friend that would support me through thick and thin. Only then it stopped doing that. With a dead battery a laptop is not very reliable, so when I took it back to the shop I knew that I had to be without it for a few weeks at least. Which suited me very badly, seeing is my laptop is my number one working tool and I have a deadline coming up.

The prospect of being laptopless for even a short time (especially right now – had I trusted Laptop the Third to live through the next month without crashing completely I might not have acted rashly) was terrible. I have for some time been ogling those mini laptops that you can practically put in your pocket. Even though Laptop the Third is relatively small, it is still heavy to carry, and having to transport it back and forth to the university all the time is not very good, for me or the laptop. A smaller laptop, though, could easily fit into any bag or backpack, and if I had two I wouldn’t actually have to carry either anywhere at all. I could keep one at home and one at the university.

I probably would have bought the mini laptop at some point anyway, but having to let go of Laptop the Third for a while made me hasten my decision. I can’t really afford it. I don’t strictly need it (I have access to computers at the university, after all). But I really, really wanted it. And granting myself things I want is one of my favourite tactics to ignore sorrows and stress…

Yup, we’re back at the stress part. One final thing that has been weighing on me lately is my pending move to a new apartment. I have been very happy/very unhappy with my living arrangement the previous six months. Unhappy because they decisively are “arrangements”. Sharing an apartment with a friend will always lead to some tension, but doing do when the apartment only has one bedroom… Ah. NO privacy;, no opportunities for “I am feeling gunky because of my stupid thesis and I want to sit in the dark in my own room and cry”; and very little control over your own situation, really. On the bright side we’ve had shared dinners, we’ve had weekly Glee-downtime together and we’ve danced to Madonna at one AM just because we could. Besides, I have come to appreciate the area. Living downtown made me feel insecure and claustrophobic at first, but now I like being able to walk everywhere (except the university, which is what I will be able to access on foot from my new apartment), I love the parks, the shops, the cafés, the people. I think my new neighbourhood will probably suit me even better, but right now it only feels remote.

Regardless of where I move to or from, however, I hatehatehate the process. Packing everything down, not being entirely sure what you’ll need and what you can let go… Most of my stuff have lived in boxes for a year, so I barely remembered what I owned. Now I need to figure out what t I should take with me, what I should leave behind and what it is time to throw out for good. Transitions such as these are probably good to clear your mind (and clean up your storage space), but I never seem to get past the disorganized mess before there is order. I only hope I will be able to get sorted out quickly, so that my new home will feel like a home.

When Life with a big L, with all its small (laptopmess) and big (moving; thesis failure worry syndrome) events take charge it becomes almost impossible to keep a cool distance to it all. I find myself unable to blog, unable to write, unable to work. It is a passing condition, I know from experience, and so I promise with confidence that I will come back stronger in all these aspects. In the meantime I shall try not to let Life get the better off me, but at the same time let it control me a little. Because sometimes Life just means taking the day off, sitting in the sun, eating ice cream.



For the record, I did buy a mini laptop today (how else did you think I was writing this?). Laptop the Fourth is cute, but I sense that it is merely a fling until Laptop the Third is back in my arms again. It will be handy having two laptops, and the eeny-tiny feeling wears off surprisingly fast (it now seems normal sized, after having typed up this post). But it doesn’t feel like the Laptop of my Life.

On HPANA (or how I learned to stop worrying and love the web)

I’ve been holding back… Or, I haven’t deliberately, but there has been one thing I have neglected to tell you. I am a Harry Potter geek. There, I said it. If you want to know what the scar on Dumbledore’s knee looks like, I can tell you. The rules of quidditch? I’m your gal. Ask me how to de-gnome a garden, and I will give you a 20 minutes long lecture. Then again, many of the people reading this regularly wouldn’t be too impressed, because they are Harry Potter geeks as well. See, my internet network (internetwork?) begun with Harry Potter. But the story starts even further back. Prepare for the inside story...

It was the night before Christmas. Actually, it was probably not, even if my mother constantly complains she is late with preparations for the holidays. Anyway, she was out Christmas shopping and she did not know what to get me. This being my pre-workinginabookshop days, she decided to give me a book, which would always be a hit. That she landed on Harry Potter og de vises sten [and the Philospher's Stone] seems fairly coincidental.

I had only barely heard of Harry Potter before this, as it was right after its release in Norway which pegs it right before it became a major international success. It wasn’t even all that known in Britain yet (you know, according to JKR [Joanne Kathleen Rowling, duh!] standards. What I had heard about the book had not actually intrigued me all that much, so chances are I wouldn’t have picked it up had I not received it as a present (though, with the following attention circus I might have done so at a later time – even if I have managed to stay away from Twilight which is the only hype I can think of that is even remotely comparable). Since I had the book in my procession, however, I started reading it, and a whole new world opened up.

What drew me in at first wasn’t the magic or the orphan thing or even the boarding school (applications for which I’ve heard increased rapidly after the Potter-books became popular). No, it was the humour. Right from the start the Harry Potter books offer a comic twist that most likely is a big part of what has convinced millions of adults all over the world (as well as their children) to read the series of seven books. As I chuckled my way through those first few chapters, I had no idea what I had gotten myself into.

Once I had finished the first book, I craved for more. The problem was, it hadn’t been published yet. In Norwegian, that is. I was about 14, and I had learned English for three-four years. However, I was not yet at a stage where it came natural to me to speak it, or read it in large quantities. The books I had previously read in English were mostly those I already knew very well in their Norwegian translation, and many of these, even, were put away because I got tired of using the dictionary for every other word.

Having the carrot of getting to read the sequel to a book I loved, however, made all the difference. I quickly dropped the dictionary. What I couldn’t understand from context would have to wait – I understood enough to follow the story, and that was all that mattered. By the end of that book I could read English. I have read all the books in Norwegian translation as well, but always after having read the original (at least once) first, and always with a foul taste in my mouth (I have issues with the translator). Basically, reading the Harry Potter books opened up a whole new world of books to me.

I caught up with the British publication dates around book four (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, or GoF as us geeks know it), my favourite in the series. I read it twice the day (and night) I got my hands on it, and I have read it at least six or seven times after that. After GoF, however, I was stuck in the same pain as other Potter fans around the globe – the endless waiting. It was years between the last few books in the series. Oh, the torture!

Until then it had not occurred to me to share my expectations for the books with anyone. Several of my friends had read them (one is almost as big a fan as I am. But not as big a geek), and we discussed the books occasionally, but we were teenagers. Most of our time was spent discussing boys (and none of them were named Harry). This is where the internet opened up another new world to me. I found several fansites online, and I think I joined a few as well to feed the addiction the Harry Potter books had become. However, I was not very active in any of them until I found The Harry Potter News Aggregator (HPANA).

I don’t know how I came across HPANA, really. According to my member stats I joined the day before the launch of The Half Blood Prince (HBP). At this point I had already read the strictly forbidden, highly protected, don’t-you-dare-to-sell-it-before-the-release-day book as a result of my bookstore employee benefits (*evil laugh*). I was dying to share, but didn’t (something I still credit myself with till this day). But I was ready to join the debates I knew would arise as soon as the rest of the world got to read it as well.

The thing is, when you discuss something you feel so passionate about with people who are passionate about the same thing, it is easy to make new friends. And it is easy to overcome differences such as age, background, religion or political beliefs. Through our mutual love for the Potterverse (oh, come on! The universe of Harry Potter, of course!) I got to “talk” (type, technically. But you know, this is 2010. It’s socially accepted to talk online now. Which you, as a blog reader, probably is aware of. But I am pretending to address this to a sceptical audience, so it would be great if you could flaunt some prejudices…) with people from all over the world. Some of them I gradually came to consider as great friends. Some of them I have met in person (six and counting) over the years, many of them I keep in touch with on a regular basis. When I was going to the US it was one of my old HPANA buddies who tipped me of someone in her neighbourhood who might be interested in a tenant (they were). While I was there I was able to visit two additional HPANA friends. For the past few years I have cooperated with many of them in my writers group. If and when I finally write a book it will be largely thanks to the connections and inspiration I have gained from my acquaintance with Harry Potter in general, and with HPANA in particular.

Assuming my mother had not bought me that present all those years ago, I might never have read these seven great books. I might never have bothered to learn English well enough to be able to use it on a daily basis. Had I not been able to do that, my choice of education (95% of my entire curriculum reading on the university has been in English) would have been difficult. If I had gone to the US at all, it would have been a completely different trip. And chances are I would not have continued to nourish my dream of writing books. I certainly would not be writing this, since I only ventured into the world of blogging because I was already familiar with online forums as means of communication and because several of my friends – HPANA friends – were already bloggers.

To say that Harry Potter has changed my life would be an understatement. Thus I think it is appropriate to express a great, big THANK YOU to both JKR and all her minions. HPANA-buddies – I love you all!