Monday, June 12, 2017

Closing In

I haven't given up.
I am actually almost done.
I simplified the story, killed off a few characters and ripped out an entire storyline.
It was still too much to handle so I split it into several books.
Babies From The Sky
Moons In The Sky
Party In The Sky
Lovers Of The Sky
Falling Off The Sky
Reaching For The Sky

Babies From The Sky is now out for test reading. As soon as I get the responses, I can rewrite potential faults and then test it again on some other readers. Then perhaps rewrite again or proofread and submit.
In the meantime I continue to write on the sequels, Moons In The Sky and Party In The Sky. I've written about 70 percent of those. Hopefully I'll have an editor by then who could help out.
My husband is great help in weaving the story and keeping track of the characters traits, habits and whereabouts. He's not a professional either, but he reads a lot and we are going through the theories of Dramatica bit by bit.

Next time I'll tell you about the responses.

Monday, January 18, 2016

The Power of the Polish

Five thirty in the morning
Waiting for the first bus of the day, are a woman and her husband
Don't know how old
But a little round, a little gray, a little bald.
I guess is it was the woman, who was going places
They were dressed up
But just a little
So I guess they were going to Praha
So maybe for some sale
No really
I am certain it was the well dressed lady who was going to the Golden City
To do some serious shopping
Today he was just an assistant
He looked bored as hell, holding the nail polish, while she fixed up her nails
Sure he did!
But, I am sure he knows that if he didn't do this
He'd be left to his own devices
That means drinking himself to death at the football club
And not knowing what to do at a birthday party even if he remembered when anyone's was
But I am sure he's happy he doesn't have to
Even though two minutes of holding nail polish is a veery long time
At least that is how I recall it from when my mother made me hold it as a child

Johnny Nilsson

Thursday, June 19, 2014

If An Artist Falls In Love With You

If an artist falls in love with you
You'll be portrayed
In every conceivable form
And angle
You'll know what beauty looks like
In the eyes of the beholder

If a poet falls in love with you
You'll wake up to words of love left
On the nightstand
On the mirror in the bathroom
On the door of your fridge
In the pocket of your coat
You'll get to know why you're the best
When you turn on your phone
When you log on to the net
You'll hear the sweetest things
Whispered in your ear
When you close your eyes at night
If you let him near

If a singer falls in love with you
You'll soon be humming songs about your love light

If a writer falls in love with you
You'll get to know why you matter
That you're a hero
And a muse
Words carefully describing your deeds
And your traits
Your personality celebrated
Your history preserved
Your place in the world secured in ink
Your life eternal in hard cover editions

If a rich guy falls in love with you
Well, you can imagine...

I am in love with you
All I can say is, "I love you."
That's pretty lame, I guess.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Fifty Years Later...

"I know there's a balance, I can see it as I swing past."
– John Mellencamp

I feel great, and I feel like shit, equally.
Nothing new there.
Sometimes I think it's uncanny
that I'm still here.
I should be dead if everything I've been told was true.
I'm not attaching any meaning to it.
Or importance of any greater kind.
It would be as easy to do,
as it would be pointless.
I don't believe there's any point to the universe, life or anything.
And I don't care.
I got other things on my mind.

I'm keeping up the writing with sheer stubbornness.
I get an occasional flow going.
There are days between those moments.

But, I have a gnawing feeling
That there is a core
Of my arbitrary ravings
And that it matters
And that leaving it be
Will have consequences
Of the darker kind

I can't say

If it is important for me
Or for you
Or for all
Or just a feeling

I'm still here.
But, I've come to plot point 8.
Answering the call to adventure with a reluctant OK.

Tell you more when I'm there.
Wherever it might be.

But, first I want to have a party

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Friday, January 17, 2014

Fifty Years Later...

Half a century ago...

Shit, I'm turning bloody fifty.

That's in 7 days...

I'm having a party!

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Interzone Airlines Advert

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Piss in the Snow, Mr Putin!


It's not that you touch

your prick

Mr. Putin

as the wanker you are

that makes us believe

you are gay

Mr. Putin

It's not that you think

 'bout nothing

but butt and 'bout dick

and what guys do in beds

from Vladivostok to Kiev

that gives you away

Mr. Putin

It's that you took

the gay out of games

Mr. Putin

And the Winter Olympics

The yellow brick road

to the gold by the rainbow

turned to piss in the snow

Mr. Putin

That is what gives you away

Mr. Putin

Not as a closet fay

Mr. Putin

But as a prick without balls

and shit for brains

who thinks he'll get away

with the cheapest trick

in any old book

of political science

– blaming the gays

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Friday, July 19, 2013

Narcoleptic Dreaming

Do narcoleptics dream about anything real?
I should certainly hope not.
— Jnilz

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


They say you get more written if you run. Ok. If they say so. All dressed up...

Monday, April 1, 2013

Time to grow up.

Just kidding.

Ten pages rewritten today. At this pace it will be done one day.

Saturday, March 30, 2013

John Carter

Take up a cause. Fall in love. Write a book.

Working on the book. Yes. I am.
Fall in love. Easy. It's been a while but I can even add another one to the list. That makes five that I'm all crazy about right now. Not going to specify. Stalkers work best in secret.
Problem is the first one. Cause?
Find a cause. Sort of relates to the meaning of life and that kind of shit.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013


What are your symptoms?
I don't open my mail or pay any bills
I'm broke, got no hope, got no dope, got no job, get no sex
But, I've already slept with them all 
And I'll pass on the rerun
The phone never rings, and I never call, so let's call it even
But what are your symptoms?
I hardly smoke anymore just a pack maybe two in a day
And it takes me an hour to walk to the store
Well, two hours back as I live on a hill
Since I got this Wonder of Nature
Created by God or by Satan or Science gone wrong
Many big names for a green little ape
That doesn't even know he exists
But what are your symptoms?
I don't freeze to death when I sleep in the snow
I melt right through
At least when I'm naked
Breathing is heavy
So I don't do much of it
The stuff in my face?
Oh, it's fungus, or herpes, or cancer
Or both
I don't see how it matters
The black bleeding spots?
Who knows what they are
But, they're never alone
And neither am I 
There are plenty of souls
Just here round the corner
I see them waving
They call my name
Whatever it is
If you don't breathe
You don't need a pulse
You don't need to eat
And with all these ulcers
Or whatever it is
That makes me spit 
So much blood when I talk
Chewing is nothing I miss
I really don't have any symptoms at all
It all evens out in the end
If there's more that you want to know
Go see that ape in the jungles of Congo
A green little bugger it is
And I go back to sleep in the snow
I melt right through 
  To the green 
To the ground
Down below


They love 'em
I know them by heart
Blood trickles into them tubes on the tray, 
slowly,  slower,  slowly,   stops
Ah, come on, don't be stingy, a few more drops
Needless to say it's a useless trick
They don't collect fluids for fun
It's for science!
Providing them though is the height of my day
Piss in this
The jar is for shit
This Petri dish is for semen
Petri's not here to help you
Ha! Ha!
Funny or not, it's humor at least
This cotton stick goes up your prick
Sneeze on this plate
Spit in the cup
Say ah!
No probe has been mentioned
We wait till you sleep...
Oh crap!
Spinal tap

Test results 

Speak of certain death
When will I take my final breath?
It's a month overdue
Well, I'm old as it is
My fluids are a worldwide hit
300 labs get a quarterly fix
My journal's the thickest on Earth they say
And this is the first time I'm sick
Except for the years I took all them pills
Which I don't anymore

A genetically modified walking corpse 
Going on an endless vacation 
Where it's dark and cold 
And it won't even know it doesn't exist
Keep it alive if you think it's important
Can't say I care if you don't
They paid no attention to my attitude
None whatsoever

Monday, July 30, 2012

I am a Krack-whore...

I am a Krack-whore. I have installed Half-Life 2, Halo, Call of Duty 4, Star Wars Galactic Battleground Saga, Mass Effect, Deus Ex Human Revolution, Dead Space 2, Battlefield 2, Portal  and Portal 2, Assassin's Creed...
And how I wish that playing these games would be as much fun as it was installing them...
This game stuff is, believe or not, a major part of storytelling nowadays. It's not some kind of phase they're going through, the younger ones. And to be a writer and a storyteller and ignore this would be as clever as the journalist who wrote a little piece late 1800-hundreds that stated that "Now we can all relax because now everything has been invented, even the telephone..."
But, I learn from these games. I don't know exactly what yet, but I'll be returning to this subject when I know more.
Now, I have a story to finish.
See you.

A war is about to start.

How do I know?
I'm the one who is going to start it.
Who is the enemy?
The good guys! Who else would it be? This is all so self evident that I leave it to those who don't get it to ask for clarification. And remember: no question is as stupid as the one who asks it.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Cleaning up in space...

The project had come to a standstill. 
The script was a mess.

I had begun killing off characters quite successfully if I may say so myself. And stopped unruly story lines from running off in new directions.
The blueprint was cleared up.

It was time to clean up the text.

You have to throw out the garbage to do that. Everything you don't need is garbage. Everything.

That means deleting.

Remove, cut out, take out, edit out, expunge, excise, eradicate, cross out, strike out, blue-pencil, ink out, scratch out, obliterate, white out, rub out, erase, efface, wipe out, blot out, eliminate, clean.

That means making the target-meter tick backwards.

No such thing.
No bell chimes when the goal of saving the script from X number of unnecessary words is reached.

Painstakingly I rewrote a sentence here, a paragraph there.
- 103 words the meter said.
No nice color stripe went from red to green as it used to.

I created a folder called 'cuts' to make it easier to remove this superfluous (really?) stuff. 
Comments and thoughts that my characters had about the world, about life, about everything. 
There's a lot of stuff in a world.
My world.
My creation.
Badly disguised as the character's but, obviously, my comments and thoughts.

'Important backstory.' 

'Makes them more like real people if they have opinions and are philosophical…'

- 56 words...

I had a couple of beers the other day.
The stronger kind: 7.2%

I gave that folder an appropriate name: crap.

Why rewrite a paragraph to make it shorter, more precise, when the whole paragraph can be tossed?

I had another beer.

Why toss a paragraph when the whole scene can go?

Why bother with the choice of words in dialog generated by a character whose entire purpose in the story is a means for me to describe how coldhearted the bad guy is?
What a precise shooter he is?
How much of the street was covered with her bodily fluids says something also about the height of the buildings in the city they lived in. 

Who cares how high the buildings are?

Delete and erase.

He doesn't need to shoot anybody.
He has people doing that for him.

A nod.
A suit whispers something in the girl's ear.
The new secretary is blond. 
A note tells her to send white lilies to an address...

It felt good once I got started.

10 000 words deleted today. 

Words are cheap.
No point in saving them for later.
More room for the story.

10 000 words tomorrow?

More room for new fresh words.
Cheap words that can be tossed and replaced.

It's called rewriting.

It means I'm getting there.


Wish all the trash around here could be removed with the push of a button.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Read or Die

Escape From Freedom
by Erich Fromm

Read it!
Trust me on this one.
You need to read it.
It explains everything you need to know about Nazis.

What's wrong with them.
What's wrong with you.
What to do about them.
How to stop being one yourself.

 If you haven't read it and you're not a Nazi, or some other kind of miserable 24/7, then you are:

a) Lying
b) Dropped on your head by your mother in a fortunate way.
c) Surrounded by people who have read the book, and who have manipulated you to become human. Read it yourself and get appreciative of the hard work they have put in to take the darkness out of you.

If you haven't read it and you think you're a good person:

a) Think again!
b) Don't think you know what a Nazi is.
c) 'Good' people are the worst kind of full-fledged Nazis!

So there!

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Not good enough. What? I haven't even started!

It's so bloody difficult to turn off that overly ambitious critic, who really has no say until there is something there to actually criticize. So you write something first, and then you clean it up. And then the next day you read it through and evaluate.
Sounds easy, right?
Why the fuck isn't it?
So Mr. Critic, we'll try this again.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I'm writing now, so shut the fuck, fuck, fuck up!
Enough already.
Back to the story.