A question that pops up here now and then, especially when I publish in the poetry corner, is how much of that stuff is me and what is just made up?
I like to think of it the way I suppose crime writers do. Take Jo Nesbø as an example. A lot of the crimes in his Harry Hole series are gruesome and chilling to the bone (especially, and that is not meant a a silly pun, The Snowman – that one almost gave me nightmares) and Harry Hole, the main character, is both likeable and host to some big problems, alcoholism included.
Do I think that Jo Nesbø is a drunkard who runs around killing people in the worst kind of way – or even fantasize about it? No. From what I read, he’s a nice guy who likes to rock climb and play music and such.
And while I am at it – I am under no illusion that I write anywhere near in his class of writing. But the fundamental thing is probably comparable – I see or hear or smell something around me in my day, that whatever it is hits some synapses in my brain and connects to a small part of me that gives what I write some life and an identity in the world.
But the final piece is an amalgam, a fictional angle on a factual world. I’ve given it a voice and a little pat of myself on the back to send it on its way. Or, if you will, blown at the dandelion to make the seeds fly out and find some fertile soil to land on. But you shouldn’t try to read too much of me into it …
I’ve Been to Town – Cæcilie Norby
Heart of Glass – Blondie
I Am What I Am – Gloria Gaynor
Happy – Pharell Williams
I Hate Myself For Loving You – Joan Jett & The Blackhearts
Roseanna – Toto
Lady (Radio Edit) – Modjo
Photo by me.