The clouds start to parade outside my window and a cold wind stir the trees. I lit a candle and sat down to edit one of my books with some final touches.
Laying it to rest and then picking it up again is essential both to test its validity and to fine tune each word, each sentence, each paragraph and page, layout and to be filled with the exact meaning I have chosen for it, once the story has been told. I want my text to be like music that way, hold its own rhythm, accentuated at certain places, vibrate in a certain tone at others, be inspiring and make my point by offering these real life experiences that yet will always be too elusive to portray with words. Told my way, in my style. Sometimes I manage to, the spirit of the essence starts to flow through me onto the keyboard and words come out. First we must surrender. Put aside all our own procrastination, all our own expectations and pressures, all our ambitions in a sense of letting go of how it will be perceived, not because we don’t want a great audience to find us or for our book to be found, but to free ourselves from our self- and societal imposed limits to what we think we must write. Then, we just do it.
To my help I am surrounded by spirits from near and far. And Strindberg.
I put up a note inside the door to an apartment building on Strindbergsgatan 44 in 2013, looking for rent. In my former apartment last year, the man who rented it out to me had two paintings with Strindberg’s portrait on. My current has this bust.