I don’t want to be a romance writer anymore but I catch myself sitting up straighter in my chair tapping away happily on the keyboard when one of my characters happens to fall in love and butterflies flutter all over the page for a while. So part of me deep down must still be the romantic.

My first published book When The Ink Dries is a romance set in various countries in Europe, North Africa and USA and for years I thought contemporary romance was my genre. To tell cosmopolitan stories about relationships that end in blissful heaven. The real world is – after all – a grim enough place as it is.

But there was something not satisfying the writer in me when the plot solely revolved around the sacred male-female dance, so my second book took me to a deeper level in myself, a level where I thought I would stay for the rest of my writing career: suspense with thriller-like aspects. Grim, cruel, grey and cold: The Collaborator’s Ghost, set solely in the Netherlands and Germany. Out hopefully very soon!!

When I set out to plot with my third book, I was convinced it would lead me in the same direction suspense/thriller but again I found myself uncovering a different layer of the writer-in-me: Daughter of The Alvar is a historical family saga with a spiced mixture of plush and grim but definitely not a romance in the traditional sense of the word. The love story is not central to the book, almost an accidental happening and doesn’t lead to the desired result. There are no heroes in the book, and everybody loses something or someone in the end. Set in Sweden, Paris and New York between 1860-1895.

Number four? Maker of Despair? Absolute the opposite of romantic love: Fake online love set in Accra, Ghana en The Netherlands.

This is how it will probably start:

I am poor. I am black. I am African. I don’t need to defend myself that it is my job to rob rich, white women by chatting them up on the Internet.

For myself I have decided I’m a multi-genre writer but I am curious to find out what the reader thinks my forte is.

It’s been an enormous challenge this year due to the unprecedented stress and sadness about my daughter’s health (and some other issues not as grave, but still tougher than most!) BUT I DID IT AGAIN! I’m very proud of this achievement – I must say – which is not my normal state as I’m not easily satisfied with myself.

So another 50,000 words into my third – to be published – novel with work title Daughter of the Alvar. A project I promised – and will therefore dedicate posthumously – to my dear Swedish friend Rolf Arnemo 

I had already written some 25K of the book + the 50K of NaNoWriMo brings it to 75K but the book is not finished. I guess it will take me another 25K to reach la grande finale. Will go at a slower pace now, hopefully some 500 to 1,000 words a day and not the almost 2,000 of this month

A taster: the final paragraph of this year’s NaNoWriMo (still to be edited) and a home-made book cover I used for inspiration this year.

The next morning it buzzed in Smedby and surroundings that Agneta Forsmann had eloped with Kalle Ljundberg. Even bigger was the hubbub when Kalle showed up at his work at the regular hour, calmly setting his stool to milk the cows. He got no time for that. All the villagers came at him with rakes and spades and chased him away over the Alvar. He was faster than them and he ran with all his might. He made it safely to the other side of the Alvar at Gräsgard Hamn, where he managed to hide in a shed near the harbour. So no one ever found out what he had done with Agneta Forsmann, who was never seen in the area again.

To be continued…

When I’m totally immersed in my writing, like now during NaNoWriMo, I oftentimes find myself waking up to a discussion with one of my characters. In the process of writing, they make their appearance on the page as if being part of me but when I retire to my slumber, I realise they’re not me and we are only trying to get to know each other, layer by layer, as the book progresses. They stay with me through my nightly hours and we attempt to work out our issues in my subconsciousness. They share their views of their world with me. It’s similar to a new friendship but with some of those characters I wouldn’t dream of starting a real friendship! Some of them are utter villains.

They do and say things I don’t understand, things I could never imagine myself saying, or doing but don’t question while penning down their actions. Such as killing another person just for fun, or cheating on your spouse without so much as a blink of the eye. Hence the discussions we have. Questions I’m dying to ask them; sometimes they’re more like interrogations.

I love this aspect of the creative process and cherish that time between slumber and my first morning coffee. Who wouldn’t want to look inside the head of an axe murderer without the risk of becoming an accessory? Who wouldn’t want to throw herself in the arms of an irresistible rogue and still enjoy the money and position of a married woman. (Well not everybody- I know- - including me!). But it’s fun to trespass all ten commandments and still be a reasonable unblemished Christian, or a regular human being, whatever you choose…

I often think of my authorship as comparable to acting. You dive deep inside yourself to unearth these (un)human traits that normally remain hidden beneath the facade of respectability.

So, with whom am I having the fiercest discussions this time? It certainly is with Max Dupuis-de Melancourt. In essence, the young Frenchman of noble blood does nothing wrong but he has a tendency to weakness and shyness. His tendency to postpone decisions ultimately leads to disaster in other people’s lives. He is too brainy, too much in his thoughts and too little in his guts. He could have saved the leading lady, easily – easily! – but hesitates whenever complications arise or obstacles are placed on his path.

Argghhhh.

It is his fault that the book can’t have a happy end. There, it’s said!

Having poured out more than 33,000 words in the last 18 days and some 60,000 words into my third novel, you would think I consider myself more than a writer in the fringe. To be honest, I’m still doubting what I am writer-wise. There are, of course, as many types of writers as there are books written but I am of a type that I haven’t yet come across among my writer-pals.

The past three Novembers I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo and managed to cross the finishing line of 50,000 words with relative ease. (I mean… uhm… I fully intend to jot down the remaining 17,000 words this year too!). But beyond the month of November I write very little. So is this a simple question of 2 +2? I write too much in too short a time thereby exhausting myself and my creativity? But it doesn’t feel that way. I’m in the flow. I write with poise and character. Then comes December and I falter, finally coming to an almost standstill in January.

Is it sheer rubbish I’m writing because I go so fast and take no time to check spelling, grammar, sometimes even facts and ideas? Doesn’t feel like that. As always, my characters are doing their surprise things; they are in command of tempo and direction. I just try to get down their trials and tribulations as fast and as accurately as possible before they go hibernating until next November. And the work needs editing, there is no doubt about it. 11 months for that!

So is there something wrong with me as a writer? Should I go on some sort of course that will turn me into a normal writer? Or is this is how I function on the page, at least for now?

Of course, I have spoken in my sternest voice to myself, telling me that I will be very, very cross when I don’t do my daily 500 words as from December 1. There will be no pudding!

But?

Yes I’m odd!

Tell me about it. <Sigh>

In the scope of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing month), which takes place every November when writers all over the globe devote themselves to penning down 50,000 words in 30 days, I’m working on my third novel with working title Daughter of the Alvar. Here’s a taster.

Time: 1890.

Place: Sweden, in the Island of Öland in the Baltic Sea.

Characters: the main character Ingrid Gunarsson, 16 year old, daughter of the Vicar of Smedby and her brother Johan Gunarsson, 20 years old, student of theology at Lund University. The third character, Kalle Ljundberg, who is only mentioned briefly, plays a major role in the book later on.

This is the beginning of Chapter 6. Please note that it is a work in progress and not yet edited.

Chapter 6 The Start of the Journey

The summer sped by as seems to be the trademark of that season and Ingrid was so engrossed in the approaching parting from her brother that her Kalle mission temporarily resided to the background. It was only Johan’s promise and her father’s consent that she could visit him in midterm that prevented Ingrid from falling into a deep depression. Although Johan had spent less time with her during his last leave than he had at other times, the mere fact of his presence in the lonesome vicarage on that remote island in the Baltic Sea had been enough to make Ingrid open her eyes with happy anticipation every morning. But 1 September was approaching with big strides and Johan was already collecting his books and papers, which were strewn over the dining room and his father’s study, both places he used to study and write.

“Don’t sulk, sister dear,” Johan said, pushing one of his dark locks from his eyes and fixing his steady grey gaze on the girl in her blue and white striped dress, who was sitting on a dining room chair with her legs tucked under her, hugging her knees, “You must be pleased that Papa gave you permission to come and stay with me in Lund. It’s only seven weeks from now. The time will fly past without you noticing it.”

“On the contrary, mon frère!” Ingrid stretched her legs from under her long cotton skirt and got up from the chair, a defiant look in her blue eyes, “they will crawl past like lazy spiders. I will be counting the minutes and the hours.” Then she added a little less fierce, “Oh yes, I am very, very happy with the prospect, of course, but I’m also slightly anxious that I will look quite passé in my Öland outfit. Are you sure the ladies in Lund will not turn their heads and think me quaint?”

“Why would they, dearest sis? You look lovely even in this simple housedress but then again I am not up-to-date with fashion as I have not the least interest in it.”

“There you go,” Ingrid cried, throwing herself on the chair again, “there is nobody in the whole world who can tell me what to wear in Lund as none of the ladies here on the island have ever been there. So even haughty Elise Aberg, who claims she’s the most fashionable girl on Södra Öland, is not going to be of any help to me.”

Johan looked helpless. He hated it when his sister had one of her tantrums, especially if he saw no way to lighten her burden for her. But a flash of inspiration came to his rescue.

“What about the lovely dress you wore on your 16^th birthday party? You could bring that? Everybody was saying you looked absolutely stunning in it.” The idea worked wonders.

“Mr Malkovitch! Of course!” Ingrid jumped up again and into her brother’s arms, “how could I forget his Kalmar atelier! Oh I must persuade Papa to let him make an entire new wardrobe for me. He will know what fashionable city girls are wearing these days.”

With the crisis over, Johan devoted himself to organising his notes again and Ingrid skipped off in search of her father. It was so typical of her age that she was completely oblivious of her recent interest in working for the poor while now her head was swimming with mousseline, fur and lace and of course the most delicate Gants de Suede, extra soft gloves.

Dying is what we, humans, constantly do. Some of us die tragically, brutally young and others at a ripe old age in their comfortable chair. We all die without a completed tick-off list. Never done all we were supposed to do or wanted to do.

Trees also die, as do ants and lions and jelly fish. We all die and we all die all the time, incessantly. In the middle of life, we’re surrounded by death. It’s death that makes us live.

But we’re scared and horrified about death being on its way to claim us. While living, we mostly – gladly – forget about it. We hang on to the frivolity of sweet life.

Death is not our friend, it’s our one and only enemy. We cannot come to terms with it, not in our life time.

But when it is there, knocking on your door, not even to claim you, but to claim one of your beloved, what do you do? Suddenly, the frivolity of sweet life is light years away.

What do I do?

I pray.

Constantly I pray, in and outside Church, asking, pleading, whispering desperate words in an attempt to put my case before the Almighty and have my child pardoned.

At the same time I also ask why?

Why? Why? Why?

Why not me or why not my sweet demented mum at 85? Both of us would swap places with a 29-year-old without a second thought.

Why gruesome illnesses?

Why intense physical, mental and spiritual suffering?

Why now? Why this? Why doesn’t it evaporate like a bad nightmare?

No answers!

Death is the enemy. Invincible, sharp and sure as the sharpest blade.

What part of us dies when we die? Some believe all of us dies. I don’t believe that but I haven’t got the answer either.

My dad once wrote a beautiful poem about a heron. It’s my favourite. Translated from the Dutch, it goes something like this.

Heron

Thin still bird

Bent by the waterside

The winter is a grey reflection in your eyes

The tides flow whispering

Through endless creeks

A frail reed stem snaps

Bird who half listening

For the stirring of a distant fish

And half frozen of privation

Sinks his beak in his feathers.

Always when I see a heron in the landscape, I greet it: “Hi dad, how are things on the other side?”

In the past week 3 times a heron landed on my lawn. I’ve never before seen the grey, lonesome bird stand in my secluded garden in broad daylight, keeping me in its watchful, yellow eye.

So I pray in an attempt to boost my Faith. God walks mysterious ways and although I feel like kicking His shins hard and painful right now, He is my Comfort, my Refuge.

Without God, death is truly gruesome. With God, it’s barely bearable.

I am trying to fight myself through lethargy, the uselessness of it all. What perspective do you have as a mother when the doctors tell you your daughter has no perspective anymore? How do you go on, breathe, walk, eat, sleep, talk? You do. But how? I don’t know. Life just takes over and directs you hither and tither, without use, without a fixed plan.

I was all for plans in the past. Plans shaped the future. Plans were the future. But that’s all past now. We’re passed plans.

Because the verdict is here: incurable disease. Life expectancy next to zero. The one percent hope for a miracle is not God, but a freak action of medical success through the chemotherapy or of the body itself. God has left the stage. Or so it seems. He must hate hospitals as much as I do.

I don’t know where to turn and whom to believe. Meanwhile, life is writing a story about another family, not about us. It can’t be us!

But it is us. My child, my beautiful, unique child terminally ill but right now walking, talking on the phone and shopping online for a winter coat.

I feel like uprooting something in red-hot anger, pulling out all the weeds to find the truth of this deep down in the earth. But I sit here -stupefied- in my pajamas and do nothing. There is nothing to do, only surrender to total surrender. Tears dried on parched skin. I would surrender my will too but it’s obstinate. It makes me continue to do all the human stuff: eat, drink, even smile sometimes. I will not but the will forces me. So I go on and on and on, eyes wide open, heart eaten out, stomach knotted and fists clenched.

And all that doesn’t matter. I don’t matter, never did. What matters, comes through me. And one important part of that – my child – is going to be taken away from me, from us.

Nevertheless, the plain answer is here on the page for everyone to see. What matters, comes through me. And then I have to let it go. I never possessed it, it just happened to find me as a medium to be born, created.

So I made a solemn vow to the psychologist who is supporting me through this process of letting go. I will show up on the page again. I will write. No matter what is ahead of us, I am finishing my third novel: Daughter of the Alvar.

It’s really all there is to learn from this: what matters, comes through me.  My children, my writing, my passion.

What is so scary about a naked page? What is so scary about myself being naked? While some enjoy flashing their nakedness around, I’m hiding in the dim lights at the back, fully dressed, not writing. Feeling bad about myself. I’m scared I have nothing to show for, nothing to say, nothing to add. Every fibre of myself yearns to expose itself, to roll my naked body in ink and make a blueprint of it on the page, disclosing every oddity, every scar, every inch of – still – unblemished flesh.

Then why don’t I?

Am I frustrated? Am I out of words, ugly beneath the surface clothes, empty, meaningless? I try to listen to the Muse but my ears are clogged and my head is full of jumpy thoughts running from food-to-buy to bills-to-pay with no story-lines in between. The cymbals of sing-song poems are dying sounds, turning their round faces to distant dreams, summer days when youth was full and every thought ended in abundance.

I have forced myself to strip naked, to stand in this shivering body, to watch the silvery emptiness in total helplessness. I can’t do this anymore. I will cover myself up in a sheet of paper as white and thin as my ageing skin. I know the paper is the skin, it’s all I am, all there is: a paper skin hiding in the dark.

A storm is brewing over the polderland. The moon hastens on the firmament amidst feverish, darkened clouds. I absorb the yellow-white light whenever it peaks through. Shadows like long fingers linger on my garden path. Then the rain, the running tears. I stand here no longer asking for the Muse but asking for God. I ask for God to listen to me but – as usual – he replies I have to listen first. So I prick up my ears and listen to the silence in the storm. The storm rages of volumes written and unwritten. I add another sheet of paper to my body.

I have written another page.

Where did it come from?

Hi Hannah,

You know how I’m waiting in the wings, longing with every fibre of my being to get on that stage and perform my monologues, dialogues, poems, blogs, snippets & flashes every day. I know you can feel my longing, feel how strong and hopeful it is. But I see how you spend your days doing all other things but giving your attention to me, nurturing me, making sure I shine in my best attire.

Why do you keep forgetting I’ve been your most loyal companion from the moment you could write your first A’s and B’s? In fact, I’ve been watching you even before you could write, seeing how you formed the words in your mouth and let them roll off your tongue in sheer delight. You loved words before you even knew what they meant. From your baby times, you savoured words like another person savours their puddings. And I’ve always encouraged you, stood by you, kept you going through all the storms of your life, never for one moment I’ve deserted you or misused you. I’ve been in numerous little notebooks in an equal amount of handbags, I’ve been poems written on the top of dykes, lain with you amidst tear-stained sheets; I’ve shared the presence of innumerable cappuccinos and glasses of wine. I was the cadance in your fingertips on the keyboard. Ecstatic I was the day your first book was published and you finally seemed to take me serious and acknowledge my ongoing support. I shone and you knew it!

Yes, you are right in sensing my sadness and indignation that days go by when you totally ignore me, hide me as if you’re ashamed of me. Dedicated and ready, I stand waiting in the velvet curtains of your mind and soul. No matter how much I raise my voice, you still don’t show up on the page but you keep proclaiming you’re so unhappy. Of course, you are unhappy. You will always be unhappy when you are not writing, when you are not acknowledging me as your only true companion in life.

So stop whining woman and see me for what I am. You have big trust issues with people but you have no single reason to assume I will be unfaithful to you. Even writer’s block in your case is just a matter of not putting your ass in your chair and start typing. You can always write, it may be crap, it may be brilliant but you can ALWAYS write. Because I am here! So please just do what you’ve got to do and then I can drop my trust issue with you.

I dearly hope so!

Sincerely,

Your Inner Writer.

Dear Inner Writer,

Whooa! You’re fierce, putting me in my place like that. It is true I do hear you calling me every day and it is also true that I am feeling unhappy but  -although this may sound implausible to you – I had not pieced these two aspects together: that not writing is directly linked to my unhappiness. It sounds like the simplest therapy in the world, just write and thou shall never be unhappy again, Is this not a bit simplistic, huh? On the other hand, typing these words, I can feel my mojo coming back, a vague smile curling at the corners of my mouth. Could you be right?

It is true that I’ve always liked words. I remember how I enjoyed writing my first words ‘An en Moe’ (I went to a Dutch primary school), the tip of my tongue sticking out in concentration to get those three little words between the pre-printed parallel lines. Again and again. An en Moe, An en Moe, An en Moe. An was the daughter and Moe is short for mother. My little 6-year old head formed its first story about mother and daughter while practicing the skill of…writing. There were no longer walls in the classroom and the teacher’s voice was a distant drone in the background. I was already on the green grass dotted with daisies observing how An en Moe were having a picnic on a checkered cloth, the picnic basket full of delicacies and the love between mother and daughter palpable in the summer air. Of course, the sun shone and the birds chirped. Life was good for An en Moe as it would never be in my own life. An en Moe were not destined to become writers, they simply enjoyed life, each other and all life’s delicacies. I was carved out for another more complex job. I knew it right there and then when a huge blot of ink spoiled my careful writing and the teacher became very visible in my eye-sight, stern-looking, overbearing. How my despair set in. Dreams don’t go well with reality in my life. Hence the tear-stained sheets and the poems drenched in agony. They had their origin before An and Moe but An en Moe became the turning point as they marked the start of my life as a writer. My dreams materialise in written words. Nowhere else.

So yes, I hear you Inner Writer and it’s true you’ve always been there, during the many ups and downs. You are my friend and I acknowledge you. I cannot promise you that you can drop your trust issue with me completely but I no longer have a trust issue with you. For which I’m very grateful. Just keep calling me from the wings when I go deaf again, will you?

Thank you,

Hannah

People of Some Name have a Wikipedia page these days. Full stop.

Now how’s that with my author friends? Are you well-known/interesting/important/smart enough to have THAT PAGE Of YOUR OWN? And if not, do you desire one?

This poll is to find out your opinions on Wikipedia and the results will be processed in another blog post. My own opinion? Undecided so far.

It’s a try-out to embed a poll into my blog so let’s see if it works. Please vote! Thank you!