Moshjärna och känsligt skrivande

Headcold. Nu vet jag vad uttrycket innebär. Eller åtminstone, vad det skulle kunna innebära. Det är så det känns, när en förkylning stannar runt huvudet. Lindar in det i bomull, liksom, och sätter sig i näsan och halsen, men ingen annanstans. Fast... lungorna har fått sin släng av sleven, de också. Jag hostar revbenen i knäck.
Usch ja. Men det är inget större problem. Vad har man att vara frisk för? Inte vädret i alla fall. Jag kan lika gärna sitta inomhus och tycka synd om mig själv. Och skriva.

When he returned, he was holding something in his hands, that he placed on the table beside her. It proved to be a white sheet of handmade, exquisite paper, and the soft glow of the lamp made it shimmer in pale gold, alluringly beautiful. On it, he placed a chubby Conté stick, as black as his own eyes. Unable to resist, she picked it up, and ran her fingers across it. It immediately became an extension of her hand, even though she had not yet put it to the paper.

Skrivandet flyter på. Vad ska man säga? Jag har inte stött på några större problem på sistone. Det enda jag kämpat lite med på sistone, är en scen där min protagonist Stephanie äntligen får en chans att ta itu med sina demoner. Känsloladdade scener är alltid extremt svåra. De kräver en speciell teknik, har jag märkt: annars blir de lätt såsiga och överdrivna. Tricket är kanske att våga öppna sig som författare. Att inte hålla det för ytligt, utan att verkligen våga dyka ner i själens bråddjup. Nej, jag skojar bara. Eller kanske inte (men visst lät det töntigt?). Den här balansen mellan realism och känslighet är i alla fall ganska svår.

She felt his surprise, almost tangible, as though it'd been a hot wall. She knew she'd revealed too much. Knew how stupid it had been of her to. Stupid -- and dangerous.
Her fingers lost their grip around the Conté stick. It dropped on the paper with a faint clicking sound, rolled over the paper, and down on the white sheet, where it stayed, caught between them, the tip blotching the white sheet in a shocking black.

“Oh no... The sheet!” She reached for it. He reached for it. The hand colliding with her’s, warm fingers touching her palm, sent a startling jolt through her body and had her hastily retract. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The shortness of air was back. She pressed her head to the headboard, and knew he was looking at her, could feel the burning gaze against her skin. Get out. Save yourself. The voice in her head was clear and so urgent she felt a wave of cold sweat pass through her body from the effort of keeping still. Then she heard Étienne’s voice, gentle and soothing like drizzling, warm honey.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes?” It was more a whimper than a word.

“Keep drawing.”

Confused, she looked down on the paper, the stable, geometrical shapes on it. Of course... She nodded. The Contéstick helped her. As soon as she’d put it to the paper, a deep, soothing calm seemed to push her anxiety away, blowing it from her mind like a breeze to smoke. A few more lines, from one side of the inner square, to the other. Three parallell lines. Then a vertical in the middle, stretching all the way from the top to the bottom of the inner square. Now that she was done with that, all there was to it, was the rest: breathing life into soulless shapes, making them meaningful through lights and shadow.

She knew Étienne was still watching her, but, afraid to see what was going through his mind, she didn’t dare look at him. She kept him a black, strong presence in the corner of her eye: ominous, but at the moment, posing no immediate threat. She hoped he would stay that way, but when he spoke her name again, just as softly as before, she knew just what futile a hope it had been. She’d given herself away. And now, he wanted to know.
By turning her head his way, she acknowledged his presence, but nothing more. Looked down on the paper, and concentrated so hard on it the lines seemed to melt together in a grey and black blur.

Ah. Jag vet inte. Jag får väl jobba på det ett tag. Fila på ski.... mitt verk, menar jag.
Annars hade jag ju haft en liten, minimal förhoppning om att kanske hinna klart med boken till resan. Jag tror dock inte jag kan räkna med den saken. Just nu håller jag dessutom på och redigerar mer än jag producerar, vilket gör att det inte rör sig framåt alls. Men det gör egentligen inte så mycket. Det fattas inte så mycket nu och jag vet ju hur det hela kommer att te sig, så alla eventuella samtal med en mycket känd och erkänd superförfattare om branschen på andra sidan Atlanten (över en drink på ett cocktailparty, kanske (*viktig hostning*)) kan i princip hållas i vilket fall som helst.

Nå, den som lever får se.