To me writing is like breathing, this is not saying it is always easy or fun, but most of the time it is and even when it isn’t I still can’t think of a single thing I rather do, well besides reading. Words come to me I put them down on paper and the first draft of something is done pretty quickly, unless we are talking about my current WIP Silent Terrorism. The ending of this WIP has been beating me with a frying pan at the back of my head for weeks. But I recently punched him in the face, so we are all sorted out now. Have I told you I don’t condo violence in any shape or form, well unless it’s in consented and called spanking.
Anyways, I seldom to never have trouble getting ideas, my head is full of them, everything from grand love stories that will be sweet enough to make you almost sick to your stomach, to political pieces that will make you wish you hadn’t picked the book up but still keep going. I’d be the first to admit it is not always good words, fun words or easy words but they are words; my words. They are stacked up in que at the back of my mind some waiting kindly for their turn others roaring with anger to get out. I have more conversations with people in my head than I have with people in real life. Let’s just say I sometimes feel slightly schizophrenic.
I am not a person that think first talk/write later, I react and say/write it first and then maybe the oops moment occurs, if we’re all lucky, or if I’m lucky my editor snatch it up. So we are on a touch and go with my blog posts because they are all me. In life out here in the real world people usually say with a smile on their face and a slight shake of their heads, “Phetra that was, hmmm, subtle,” with sarcasm drooping with every word. What they really are trying to say in a vary subtle way, is to get me clued in that I need to change my ways. Since I don’t do subtle, I’m like my ADHD and ASD son there, most of the time I don’t get what they are saying. The rest of the time I simply play stupid and pretend I don’t get it. Most people around me are used to this by now and know when to push and when it's a lost cause to argue.
I am as impulsive in my writing as I am in my way of being out in the real world. Writing is a way of being alive, I am alive therefore I’m writing might be a good way of putting it. In my writing I always have that one character that will speak his or her mind, not censuring themselves ex. Haven Naranjo from Haven’s Revenge, Charlie Morin from Love of the Game or Johannes Alm for that matter in the same book, even if they have two different approaches to saying what’s on their minds. In Silent Terrorism, you have the rebel reporter, Mattis Andersson, who will walk through fire to get the truth out there and save his friends.
I assume everyone has heard the expression “I rather live in the world that my mind has created than in the real world”, that sort of wraps up me and how committed, or in need of writing I am. I can’t turn my head off I read a book it is spinning along with the words in the books creating scenes from what I’m reading. When I’m not reading what I have read inspires my mind to come up with new great ideas, I am grocery shopping and people around me doesn’t exist because I’m busy plotting, brainstorming or visualizing my next scene/project. People I know can sometimes stop me as they meet me on the street, breathing hard from running to catch up to me and say. “God what the hell is the matter with you I’ve been calling your name for the past 5 minutes.” My reply will always be, “Really! My bad I didn’t hear you.” Because I haven’t, besides the fact that I have heavy metal blasting in my ears most of the time when I’m out, I just don’t see people. I might not be physically writing but my mind is.
I’m an introvert, and I think that is what people in my life find to be the hardest with me. Because I don’t really need people, unless I am in the mood. That is not saying I don’t enjoy like minded souls when I meet them. People, are for the lack of a better word complicated so I avoid them. I have no problem spending a whole week by myself without real company, writing and reading gives me all the company I need. If you ask those close to me they could probably tell you this, because seldom will you hear me suggesting meeting up with friends for brunch or a walk. I might say I’m taking a walk and having lunch by myself or I might bring one of my kids with me for some one on one and nice mummy and me time. However, one who will bitch and moan more than me, at least on the inside and smile like the good girl I am on the outside, when someone suggest a get together. Ask my domestic partner. He is the calmest person ever who seldom to never gets worked up, but if there’s one thing that annoys him about me it is my lack of interest in spending time with people. But sitting interacting with my characters or people online who feeds my soul that is no problem.
I don’t think I am alone in this, I rather think for once in my life embarking in this so-called writer's journey I might have found a click of people who are just like me, other writers. I’ve always been the odd man out, easily bored by the company of people because chit chatting about the weather is about as appealing as talking about someone latest cramps, it doesn’t give me anything. It might sound selfish and maybe it is, but all our lives we are taught to adapt to the world, to make sure we act accordingly, behave accordingly, talk accordingly, are courteous and conscientious to other people’s feelings and make sure others are well settled before tending to our own needs. When writing I am allowed to be selfish and just think of my own or my characters needs, the rest of the world's morals and expectations matter not. When I write I can create the world into that place I like to live, kill of the asshole that came into my office the other day and yelled orders because I happen to be the first person he met walking into the building I work in. But bring me a stimulating conversation from an exotic and “swim against the stream” person and I’m game!
Writing to me is a way of dealing with the world I’m forced to live in, a way to vent all those things that gets to me and change them awful things to something I rather want. To me writing is my way of contributing to changing the world. One person may not be able to do everything but we all can do something. This is one of my many way of doing that something.
And as for the image choice for this blog post... how can a perv like myself resist. *winks*
I'm reading this book, and without knowing where the author is from its pretty safe to say she's British. It is mostly because of the words she use like dressing gown, I actually had to look that word up because I was like why the f*ck is he wearing a gown, because in my world it's robe or bathrobe. Dressing gown it is something old lady wears to bed, but then when I start thinking no that is night gown, hence looking it up.
In Sweden, when taught English in school, we are taught British English, don't ask me why it is just the way it is and has always been. But sometime around the time I was in sixth grader or something they also started to incorporate American English in our school books because there were words that meant one thing in British English and something different in American English, also British people spell words like colour with an ou and Americans without the u and so on and so forth.
So here we are learning British English in school but every darn program on TV is 90% American shows, movies, talk shows, you name it. So you think I speak funny, well try speak so everyone understands with 10 years of British school English with 5 years American English and see what you get. *winks*
Well, reading this book got me thinking about an incident when I was 15, I had graduated high school and was going to the US for a year as an exchange student. This was the high life for me! I had been planning for this for years. I had been nagging my parents to let me do this, which I eventually got to do.
To say to travel to the US alone at the age of 15 that it was scary is an understatement and the fact that I got lost at New York LaGuardia airport wasn't exactly what I had in either when I started my journey. But I lived and I remember a very nice and very good looking man I might add and I still remember this, 20 odd years later, helped me find my way, so I lived to see another day.
Finally settled and less jet lagged I started my Junior year in an American High School, and loved it, it was way different than what I ever thought it would be but I loved it still. Now to the tricky point. Here I was 15 years old, a Swede, with stigma of the Swedish Bikini Team to live up to and let's put it this way I was a nerd I didn't live up to it then and I sure as hell don't now. But there you have it. I wanted to fit in, I was 15 standing out was the devil, I was I think a month into my stay and had by some miracle managed to not fall on my face once. Yay, Go me! There I was having art drawing a tree I think and sit in a circle of people and kindly ask some guy sitting way across from me to please pass me the rubber.
Fairly harmless, I thought so to until everyone started to giggle and I had no freaking idea why. I only understood, nicely showing from the color of my face, that I said something very wrong. The teacher tried to get them to settle and stop acting silly. I felt awkward both because I had no idea why asking for a rubber caused such frantic giggles. Then the same guy who I asked for this damn square thing, whatever you call it, said something of the sort: "I'm sorry but I don't have any rubbers on me but I'll lend you my erasure."
Then someone kindly whispered that a rubber was a condom and if I had been blushing before then I probably flamed up at that point, and I remember thinking that I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
Again I survived that horror, but I never got live that one down, which is OK, now in retrospect it is rather funny.
Dreamer, Writer, Reader and Metal Head.