Tone Almhjell's Blog

Absolute silence around here. Sorry. It seems like I've been racing deadlines since... Hm. Can't remember when the clockwork suddenly wound up so tightly. August? September?



First to finish the translation, then edits, then more of same. I rush through routines and sandwiches with pbj and edits, and the weeks just slip by. But this one Sunday in January we managed to sneak in a trip to the park to go sledding. Here's the robotfighter and his beloved Tante Line.

And me? Why didn't I go sledding?


Well, behind the little polar expedition hero, that's me at the bottom of the slope, drinking coffee with my mother. I'm the red bell-shaped one.

Tick, tock. The race is on!

In other news, this made me cry today:

The Little Hands of Asphalt - Fitzcaraldo from APPARATET on Vimeo.

It's one of the bands my brother plays in. So good.

I’m sorry about the conspicuous silence. For the longest time I’ve been dying to tell you, and then, when I could, I just clamped up.

I could blame it on deadlines and kid with a nasty cold and press (Yikes! So strange being on the other end!) and Christmas preparations and all sorts of things, big and small. But honestly, I’m a little bit overwhelmed. I took the weekend off(ish), did some Christmas shopping, did some mental de-cluttering, watched Cars and wiped noses with Magnus, oh, some three hundred times. And still I feel a little off-kilter. In fact, I feel a little like Fuller in Home Alone, squished up behind that chair. Only happy.

Because… dear me. I can’t even claim that this is a dream come true. I may have said with some confidence that I was going to be a fantasy writer when I grew up, I may have quit my job, even, to get there, but I never imagined something like this.

I know it’s been inching nearer for quite a while, first with the suggestion that I should try to write a summary in English and translate a few chapters, just to see how it went. The suggestion came from my childhood friend Thomas, who’s quite new in the publishing business, but who turns out to have a fine nose for such things. He does things like pick up the Norwegian rights for Game of Thrones and American Gods before anyone else has realized they're going to be TV-series and connected the dots. All Thomas knew about Twistrose was what I’d told him, rather clumsily and very briefly, at a dinner party. But he knew at once (or so he claims). I really didn’t.

Then I signed with Jane Putch, the most amazing agent in the universe, again through the suggestion of good friends. I knew she accomplishes spectacular things. But when the deal with Dial happened, I was floored.

And yet, with the Publisher’s Weekly note, everything sort of hit me like a frying pan. A nice frying pan, mind you, one that has been frying bacon and brussels sprouts. (What? You don’t like brussels sprouts? Not even with hot bacon, butter and brandy? Huh.)But still quite hard. Like I said: I’m Fuller (but without the soda concerns, promise).

So now I have to shake off the dizzyness and get back to my routine, quickly. Twistrose may already be out this time next year, which means that I should promptly develop serious multitasking abilities, or give up sleeping or, you know, quit procrastinating. Ha.

What, now? Okay. Now.



Photos by Line Almhjell.

Conversation between tiny boy and his mother in a gift shop. They are looking at Christmas decorations piled up in baskets and boxes, and the boy removes his mitten, closes his hand around a shiny bauble and shudders: "Soft!"
The mother arches her eyebrows. "That's not soft, is it, sweetie?"
"Soft inside, Mommy," the boy replies. "I'm soft inside the heart."

Me too, little boy.

Oh. I have the most delicious secret. And no, it's not that I need another haircut (because yikes).

Can't share yet.

But I'd say it's rather marvelous stuff, the kind of stuff that would make my knees watery if I could travel back in time and whisper it into my 20-year-old ear.

From time to time I’m asked why I write.

It’s not because I want to create something that will last, or to see my name on the well-cracked spine of a book in a library, though these, too, are excellent reasons. It’s not because I have no choice. I can while away hours and days, lose myself in the everyday little: sparrow gazing, daycare runs, transactions and translations. It’s certainly not because I find it easy, or because I can’t think of anything else to do with my life. Writing costs, and having tried other paths, I’d say it’s pretty dear.

No. It’s because of her. You see, in the corner of my study, there is a big armchair. In the armchair sits a girl of eleven.

Her hair is cropped too short, and little spindly tufts are sticking out in weird places, mostly because it won't occur to her to wet her hair in the morning for several years still. But she doesn't pay the random curls any attention, she is too absorbed in her book. The pages keep turning, like the ticking of a very slow clock, and her eyes are shining, and it'll only be three more days until she puts the book down and says, "That was wonderful. What's next?"

If it were the eighties, in a small place too insignificant to be called a town, in the middle of Norway, the answer would be, “Nothing. After the Grey Havens, there’s nothing.” But it’s not, and I’m here typing like crazy so I can answer, "This is next. The Twistrose Key. You will love it."

Of course, the world has changed and expanded around her since then. Harry Potter and His Dark Materials and Daughter of Smoke and Bone and Plain Kate, and there are so many places to visit now that she may never have to sit there, stunned and lost, fearing that the time of adventure is already over.

And yet it is always her I write for, not for myself, and never for the people looking over my shoulder.

For the longest time, I just ran out of words. But after a while the path divides into two; those who lost someone that day go down the bleak, tangly one. Everyone else goes down the other, where caramel lattes and morning kisses and sparrows on your café table still make you grin.

And random curls. Random curls especially.

Yesterday, in our apartment on Grünerløkka, I felt the blast. I walked to the window, thinking it was the mother of all thunderclaps. No rain. And then the sirens.

My Pan's office is 30 meters away from the blast. His window is gone, the facade is warped and broken. The whole building is burnt out. If it were a regular Friday, he would have been there, because he never goes home early. But it wasn't a regular Friday. It was in the middle of the general vacation, and my Pan was hiking in the mountains. When he came home last night, I felt ugly alternate realities peel away right there. He's safe. Some of his colleagues were not so lucky.

My brother in law works in an independent record store only two blocks away from the blast. He was bending down to pick up something, right underneath the big windows, when the bomb went off. For some reason the windows didn't shatter, they just rattled around in their frames, even though windows broke everywhere along that street. He didn't get cut by glass. His co-worker was not so lucky.

My friend was on his way home yesterday afternoon. He contemplated going into a supermarket to pick up a couple of things, but decided that it could wait. How many minutes did that save him? Four? Five? Six? He crossed Einar Gerhardsens plass. Five minutes later it blew up. That woman with the ponytail on Dagsavisen's cover today was not so lucky.

I didn't know anyone on that island. I can't bear to think about that island. If I close my laptop and turn off the tv, I can attempt to shut it out, now that there are no more helicopters rushing to the hospital . So many - so many - are not so lucky.

Today I'm sitting here, shivering in all my luck, and all those parents, brothers, sisters, girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers, family, and friends rim every thought. I feel that I should do something. That I should help in some way. But my bloodtype is not the desired one. So instead I take my child to the park, and I'm not afraid. We have ice cream. I meet the eyes of strangers, to see if they, too, are tearing up.

I won't go into politics and tolerance and the press coverage here, though there is much to be said. Øystein Runde's post (in English) is a start.

Mags is putting together his first little sentences.

Mommy, what sayed you?/Mamma, hva sidde du?
Mommy, what you do?/Mamma, hva gjøre du?
Don't want to./Vil ikke.
That sure was good./Var godt, ja.
Drive car./Kjøre bil.
Drive car fast./Kjøre bil fort.

Ack, I'm so busy! I hardly have time to spell my name right. I'm language editing the second part of the Norwegian translation of A Game of Thrones, and the deadline is July 1st, and due to some chicken-poxy hiccups, I'm behind schedule.

So these days, I just stay at my desk, all crazy-haired and wild-eyed, tearing through the pages like an insufferable, know-it-all whirlwind. But every few hours, I glance up and see the trees outside and remember that my summer holiday is only eight days away. Or is it seven? Gah! Must dash. Must whirl. But in the meantime, here are my summer promises. I will:



Eat sweet morello cherries.



Stay in the dappled shade.



Spend time at the cabin.



Read by the ocean.



Visit friends.



Stay healthy.



Lie in the grass.



Stay up too late.

Oh, and the photos are of course by Lin.

There's such a terrific rain in Grünerløkka today. The sort that makes strangers smile at each other as they huddle under newspapers and parapets, waiting for the tumbling grey to relent so they can brave the puddles and go to work. On days like these, I wish I could spirit my beloved Dromedar across the mountains and years.


I would open the narrow, white door of the café, and the bell would ring, and my favourite table with a view of the cathedral would be free. Because who ventures out in such weather? Only me, and the silent blonde girl with her tattered paperbacks, and the barista, who grins and starts my cardamom latte without even asking.


Smiling back, I shrug out of my rain gear: my grandmother's thick, white oilskin jacket, my "southwester" hat, already steaming in the warmth of the tiny room. And there's cookie jazz playing, and the blueberry muffins are fresh from the oven, and heavy drops are pelting the cobblestones outside.


As I sit there, trying to glimpse the green of the cathedral spire through the mists, an idea blooms in my head. What if a story began, right there, across the street, in the red, crooked house I've always pictured in that empty lot. What if it starts with a girl, staring out into the rain, unaware that she is already dreadfully late. I smile a little to myself. And then my latte is ready.


Photos: Lin and johnsarelli