I’m a writer. Or a traveller. SomeItimes I wonder if I’m only a traveller who happens to write about my travels. I’ve been doing that since I was 16. But you had to write about “what I did this summer.” Or was it earlier?
Memory serves. It must be the drugs…
I was born in Bergen, Norway 26th July, 1972. But I grew up in Oslo since I was 4 or 5. Travelling have always been an important part of my life. It’s the adventure itself, I guess. My mother took me along to these exotic places. And I was always envies of other kids journeys I have not been to.
The thought of true writing didn’t occur I was 19. But for years there was doubts about what the hell I was going to write about.
During the one university year after my army service, I decided it was a lot more fun sitting on my favorite pub and write poetry for 18 year old girls. Those were the days. And somehow the girls I have met since, have had an influence on what I write about. And now, things seem to be much more serious. It’s almost like a live or die situation.
10 years ago, a series of events lead me to write columns for one of Norways most acclaimed and controversial writers and comediennes; Shabana Rehman in a major newspaper in Oslo. I regret now that I did not follow up on that more than a year. There’s nothing better than getting paid to rant and rave about deeply disturbing things that goes on around us every day.
Today, I have a little schizophrenic relationship with this “artform” called writing.
Love and hate. Fear and loathing of both. And right now, I feel like Gollum in Lord of the Rings. There are times I have had no whish to think about writing. I’ve dreaded it. And then after while, I miss ot so terribly it’s tearing me apart.
There’s a novel I’ve been working on, well, it’s in my drawer somewhere which is taunting me like the Devil himself. When was writing fun last time? When was travelling fun the last time? It seem that it’s just a hunt for something lasting, and not only escapes from things or facing the dark side.
And every day without both, is one step further away from what I was supposed to do. To create strange stories from the places I have been. And there are so many other places still to visit.
There is one writer in Norway I know about. We’ve met a few times and exchanged a few ideas. For the first time since I met the bastard, I have some strange empathy for him. Maybe even sympathy.
He’s trapped in some high class marriage with kids, and propably think about his hashish trips to Morocco as a roaming beast on a hunt.
Well! I am there right now! And it’s tearing and wearing me down.
I got a news flash for my friend in Norway: You suffer for your art! No matter what situation you’re in! It doesn’t matter wether you’re on the front of a magazine or in a strange land incognito dreaming of a peaceful spot and someone to share it with or living the life of a wild mustang roaming free, or rotting away in some attic somewhere on the East Side writing lines like “will swear for food.”
Life stinks! Wear a hat! Listen to Denis Leary’s song about how life is going to suck!
This blog will be about how I percieve things in a world that’s gone insane, and how my story is getting along.
And maybe there in the horizon there will be a place for “us”, and not just a neurotic writer trying to find sanctity in (in)sanity.
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In the name of Pat Robertson and his greed, I am an outlaw Writer!