Så var vi i gang

Jeg har lenge tenkt på å starte en blogg, men det har vært så mye som holdt meg tilbake. Jeg vet da ingenting om design, jeg kommer sikkert ikke til å få noen lesere og om jeg skulle fått det, har jeg i det hele tatt tid til å oppdatere ofte nok? Men spiller det noen rolle? Hvem sier jeg ikke kan lære meg design? Og trenger jeg lesere for å skrive? Etter snart fire år i England kjenner jeg et sterkt behov for å uttrykke meg på norsk igjen. Spesielt i år, etter å ha flyttet med min belgiske kjæreste, går alt på engelsk og selv om det er supert det, kjenner jeg at det hadde vært så utrolig deilig å få skrive på morsmålet - bare litt. Jeg bruker all min tid på å lese engelsk, skrive engelsk, rette engelsk, snakke engelsk, og brått merker jeg at skrivefeilene sniker seg inn når jeg skriver norsk. Er det så dét denne bloggen skal handle om? Er dette mitt lille klagehjørne der jeg snakker om hvor tøft det er å glemme norsk? Tja. Forhåpentligvis ikke bare det. Jeg ønsker å gi venner, kjente og ukjente et innblikk i hvordan livet mitt er i London. Hvordan er det å være norsk i utlandet? Hvordan er det egentlig å satse alt på å bli forfatter? For det er vel strengt tatt det jeg gjør. Jeg har en bachelor i Creative Writing and Film, og jeg tar en master i Creative Writing and Publishing. Sannsynligheten for å leve av å skrive er - som lærerne mine minner meg på hver skoletime - minimale. Hva er det jeg driver med? Det spiller vel ingen rolle at jeg gikk ut med en A på bacheloren hvis det ikke går an å leve av det jeg spesialiserer meg i. Utdanner jeg meg til arbeidsledighet? Samtidig er livet utrolig spennende for tiden. Jeg spesialiserer meg i det beste jeg vet og jeg bor i en verdensmetropol av en by. Denne bloggen blir nok fylt av oppturer og nedturer, spennende prosjekter og nederlag. Kanskje legger jeg også ved noen skrivetips. Jeg håper du vil følge meg på veien. 


- Maja E V Olsen


Legger også ved første kapittel av et av bokprosjektene mine, The Land of What If. Noe av tegnsettingen og linjeavstanden ble endret da jeg kopierte den inn, men teksten skal være det samme. Fordi jeg bor i London, går det for det meste i engelsk for tiden. Mulig det kommer noen norske prosjekter igjen om en stund. 



I thought rain in Australia would be warm, like in tropical countries. I thought wrong. I remember standing on the damp pavement, watching my white ballerina shoes drown. Grey square houses, grey wide streets and grey sky surrounded me. Grey. That's the word that best describes Sydney to me. But of course, anything would have seemed grey to me at the time. I hadn't slept at all on the 23-hour long flight from Oslo to Sydney. I hadn't eaten, hadn't watched a movie. I didn't even take a picture when I changed planes in Doha. I was busy trying not to think about you. Would you have approved of me coming here, Edith? Would you have thought I was running away?

            Even the cab I took from the airport was grey. The cab driver had a thick beard and tan arms. After we parked outside of the hostel, he clicked the trunk open, humming.

           "Can't remember the last time it rained this much," he said, grinning as if he'd won a competition. He reeked of cigarettes and sweat. The stench blended in with the city's smell: garbage, exhaust, fries and sea breeze. The rain made everything more pungent.

            "You alright, love?" he said.

            "I'm fine." What did he call me love for? I didn't know him.

             Raindrops hit the ground like bouncing balls, splattering on my shoes and jeans. I wore expensive jeans and a dark blue Jean Paul sweater. I'd brought a pink suitcase. At the time I didn't realise how out-of-place my outfit was.
            On the other side of the road, a woman struggled with her twisted umbrella, trying to bend it back into its original shape. One of its arms broke with a snap. The woman stuffed the umbrella into a bin, over-spilling with white plastic bags. Holding her arms over her head, she ran past a car park, escaping into a shop on her left. 

            The cab driver lifted my suitcase from the trunk and groaned, still smiling.

            "You know," he said, "when someone says they're fine, they usually mean the opposite."

            "I'm fine."

            He put the suitcase in front of me with a loud clack.

            "If you say so."

             He chuckled. Droplets dangled from his hair, beard and eyebrows.
            "Good thing we're waterproof, eh?" he said. What was wrong with him? Why didn't he jump into his car and drive off? Perhaps he was stupid. If he was, I envied him. Imagine what a relief it must be to just exist, without having to reflect on anything.

             When I was younger, I used to think I was the only real person in the world and that everyone else were puppets. I thought they all pretended to exist so that I would have someone to talk to. If other people had dreams and thoughts and ambitions and secrets - if everyone in the world did - then there was so much I would never be part of, never know. That couldn?t be. I was convinced my dreams must come true because there had to be a reason that precisely I was here. As I got older, I realised there's no such thing as a bigger plan. Everything doesn't happen for a reason. We live and we die. That's it. 

            "You're from Norway," the cab driver shouted over his shoulder as he returned to the car. "I noticed the passport when you put it back into your bag. I'm pretty good with passports, you see. I sort of made a hobby out of it. All the Scandinavian ones are red and gold. Norway has a lion with an axe. And then you have two different ways of spelling Norway. What is it again? Norge and Norje? Norhe?"

            Noreg, I thought, but I didn't say anything. He went on to talk about the Swedish and Danish passports and then the American one. Didn't he need air like normal people?
            I looked at the square grey building in front of me. A red X hung above the entrance next to four black letters: BASE. Where was the magnificent and different country my travel agent had promised?

            The cab driver returned with my coat and Adidas bag, the one I had filled with various boots because I couldn't decide on which pair I liked the best. I was disgustingly self-absorbed. Even then. Why didn't I help the poor guy, instead of just standing there?

             "So, what are you planning to do while you're here?" he asked, placing the strap of my bag over my shoulder and handing me my coat.

              "I don't know," I answered.

            You always said I was such a planner. It sometimes annoyed you. I had a sudden urge to giggle. For once, I had no plan.

              He grinned. "Well, there's the opera house, of course, and the beaches - Bondi Beach, you'll love it there. Lots of attractive people like yourself. You can surf or tan. Or eat. You've got to eat, right? There's a great Indian restaurant around the corner, but I guess you want something Australian. Ever tried 'roo burgers? It's made out of kangaroo meat."

              "I'm vegetarian."

              "Alright, Indian then. Lots of vegetables."

              I thought of something I'd read in Illustrated Science, about how the universe might stop expanding at some point and come crashing back, melting everything together, reversing the Big Bang. The cab driver went to look at his taximeter. He didn't seem troubled by the state of the universe. Why should he? You don't need philosophy or science to drive a cab. If you think about it, why do people actually find the idea of nothingness so terrifying? We all have an expiration date. Isn't it just natural, a relief even, to think that some day this journey towards oblivion will finally come to an end? Mamma used to say life is dangerous - no one has survived it yet. She used to say it with a chuckle. I don't think she says it anymore.

              The driver kept talking, but I didn't pay attention. When he returned, walking at a steady pace as if it was a calm summer's day, I handed him a note.

              "Keep the change," I said. I pulled up the handle on my suitcase and dragged it towards the hostel.  

               "Cheers, darling!" he yelled after me. "You'll have a great time in Sydney."

               Sure, I would. This is stupid, I thought, grabbing the door handle. What was I thinking coming here? What's it going to solve?

That was when I spotted Ellie."




2 kommentarer


08.01.2017 kl.17:26

Du er min favorittblogger! Gleder meg til neste innlegg.

Maja E V Olsen

09.01.2017 kl.23:30

Andrea: Du er best i test. Tusen takk!

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Maja E V Olsen

Maja E V Olsen

23, Moss

Tar en master i Creative Writing and Publishing ved City, University of London. Har også en bachelor i Creative Writing and Film. Drømmen er å bli utgitt, og jeg holder for øyeblikket på med to romaner kalt The Land of What if og The No Child Act. Skriver også noveller og filmmanus.