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On Writing – Inga M. Beck
thoughts about and experiences of writing
Ég hef aldrei verið þekkt fyrir að vera mjög fylgin sjálfri mér. Það sem ég ætla mér hefur oft lítið að gera með það sem ég geri í raun. Ég hef til dæmis ætlað mér að hafa lokið eitt stykki bók í heilt ár núna. Ég set mér ítrekað markmið sem ég svo fylgi ekki. Kemur svo dæmisagan:
Í október 2016 kom út mín fyrsta bók: Skóladraugurinn, og síðan hún birtist í bókabúðum um allt land hef ég verið að vinna í framhaldinu, Sögu Sigtryggs (og  stundum unnið að því Í bókabúðum en það er annað mál). Ætlunin var að hún kæmi út 2 árum seinna, fyrir jólin 2018, því þá færi það saman við tímann sem hefur liðið í sögunni. Til þess að það væri hægt þurfti ég að koma henni til útgefanda fyrir nóvember 2017 og gerði ég auðvitað áætlun samkvæmt því, tók mér meira að segja tveggja vikna launalaust leyfi frá vinnu til að skrifa og vinna í handritinu mínu. Fyrstu þrjá til fjóra dagana gekk vel: Ég skrifaði og skrifaði og skrifaði eins og vindurinn en svo fór eljusemin fljótt dvínandi. Seinni vikan fór að miklu leiti í rannsóknarvinnu ýmisskonar, oft eitthvað sem hafði í raun lítið sem ekkert með söguna sjálfa að gera. Að lokum þurfti ég að mæta aftur til vinnu, nine to five eins og segir í laginu. Auðvitað ætlaði ég að halda ótrauð áfram að skrifa. en æj… ég var allt í einu ólétt, og ég var svo þreytt, ég gæti sannarlega bara skrifað við og við og svo þegar blessað barnið væri fætt myndi ég nýta tímann þegar hún svæfi til að vinna upp og koma frá mér mjög grófu uppkasti fyrir nóvember byrjun. Hahahahahahahahaha, ó fyndna barnlausa ég (mér þykir nú fólk sem klárar meistararitgerðir innan tímamarka í fæðingarorlofi álíka trúverðugt og einhyrningar).
Áður en ég vissi af var nóvember 2017 mættur og ég ekki nærri því komin með handrit. Þá rýrnaði eitthvað metnaðurinn, kerling setti tærnar upp í loft, gretti sig framan í hvítvoðunginn og “hver er sæta litla stelpan hennar mömmu?” svo voru allt í einu komin jól. Nú jæja, kerling spýtti í lófana eftir áramót, ákvað að taka upp bullet journalling (eða Bu-Jo, skoðið það á pinterest ef þið þekkið ekki hugtakið, stórgóð hugmynd fyrir manneskju sem á allt of mikið af ónotuðum stílabókum og alls konar lituðum pennum, ekki svo góð fyrir fólk sem kann ekki að stjórna tímanum sínum). Þar var nú aldeilis hægt að setja sér markmið og nota allskonar skreytingar og mælingar og skipulagningar til að koma sér í verk. Samhliða þessu opnaði ég líka aftur Twitter reikninginn minn og fór að fylgjast með og spjalla við allskyns höfunda. Nú dagbókin varð voða fín, og það var ægilega gaman að skipuleggja allskonar í hana. En fór ég eftir markmiðunum sem ég skrifaði niður í hana? Jah, fyrstu þrjár eða fjórar vikurnar voru voða góðar. Eftir það? Þarf ég að segja það? Eitt af markmiðunum var meira að segja að ganga til liðs við #5amwritersclub á twitternum, fólk sem vaknar kl 5 og skrifar af því að amstur dagsins sem fylgir gefur engan annan glugga til skrifa. Mér finnst það reyndar ennþá góð hugmynd og er ennþá á prjónunum af því ég er í raun alger A manneskja, en það hefur ekki gengið upp ennþá, að hluta til vegna þess að ég er þrátt fyrir allt frekar löt, og hins vegar kannski það sem ég nota dálítið sem afsökun í þeim málum: kæfisvefn á það til að eyðileggja dáldið fyrir mann morgungleðina og hressleikann og snooze takkinn verður ofnotaður.
Næsta skref! Scrivener! Í vor tók ég mér einnig tíma til að læra almennilega á Scrivener þegar handritið mitt var orðið það viðamikið að ég náði ekki yfir þægilega yfir það í Word lengur. það hjálpaði dálítið til um stund að geta notað þetta fína forrit og loksins kunna að nýta það til hins ítrasta, fínt líka að hafa allt handritið á dropbox og geta hlaupið út með fartölvuna og skrifað á kaffihúsum (besta leiðin til að ég komi orði á blað) eða setið heima við borðtölvuna. En hvað þá? jú mikið rétt, kella á svo agalega forna fartölvu að hún réði ekki við dropboxið ógurlega, þá var orðið of mikið vesen að flakka með efni milli staða á scrivener og dugnaðurinn lagðist útaf aftur. Þá loks skal kerla skrifa heima, á eftir allt jú fína borðtölvu og fallegt skrifborð frá afa mínum og allar nauðsynlegar græjur… en… æj… besta lyklaborðið mitt er svo plássfrekt að ég get ekki lagt frá mér kaffibolla á borðinu. Svo er svo mikill hávaði í því að barnið sem sefur fyrir utan gluggann öðru megin við mig og betri helmingurinn sem situr í sófanum hinum megin hafa engan frið! og hin lyklaborðin eru bara svo óttalega óþægileg! Ekkert mál, nú skal splæst í nýtt frábært lyklaborð! Og frábært er það svo sannarlega (sjáið líka hvða þa ðer fallegt!), en ó mig auma þá er komið að mesta anna tíma ársins í skramband dagvinnunni sem ég neyddist til að snúa aftur til í júní, þá er maður alltof þreyttur eftir 8 tíma framan við tölvuna í vinnunni til að setjast aftur við tölvuna þegar maður kemur heim! það bara gengur ekki upp! Jæja, þá er best bara að prenta bara út það sem komið er af þessu handriti og byrja að lesa yfir og krota inn í það sem þarf að laga… kemur þá ekki í ljós að það er bara hvergi pláss á eða í skrifborðinu mínu til að leggja frá sér útprentað handrit! gott ef kerling tekur þá ekki bara til við að skrúbba flísarnar í forstofunni, það hlýtur að hjálpa ekki satt?
Nú nálgast óðum sá tími sem ég ætlaði mér upphaflega að bókin myndi koma út og eftir allan þennan tíma og allskyns áætlanir hvað hef ég áorkað? Ja ég skal segja ykkur það: Ég er búin að gera upp baðherbergið, ganga með eitt barn, jarða móður mína, fara í fæðingarorlof, mála íbúðina, prjóna heimferðasett og kjól í nafnaveilsu á barnið og húfu og hálfa peysu á betri helminginn, fara tvo hringi í kringum landið (næstum því), trúlofa mig, vinna 100% vinnu og stundum gott betur, ganga frá dánarbúi, setja upp hillur, taka niður hillur, flokka bréfaklemmur, skipuleggja innihald í skúffum, raða fötum í fataskápa, taka til í geymslunni um það bil hundrað sinnum, eignast vini á Twitter, stofna félag brautskráðra nemenda í ritlist og svo mætti lengi telja og jú viti menn handritið er orðið 150 blaðsíður en þó hvergi nærri búið. Það nýjasta í frestun var að panta nýtt kreditkort svo ég gæti haldið veffanginu mínu sem ég nota aldrei… fyrr en núna, af því að það heillaði mig meira að skrifa blogg um hvernig ég nýti tímann minn ekki nógu vel í að skrifa, frekar en að skrifa.
En nú þegar ég er búin að segja ykkur að ég þurfi að skrifa, þá er spurningin: ætli maður skrifi eitthvað?
p.s. Ef skrif myndu spilast inn í hreiðurgerðarmaníu hugsið ykkur hvað rithöfundar myndu eignast mörg börn! Ég hef í það minnsta aldrei prjónað og saumað jafn mikið á svona stuttum tíma á ævinni.
By Inga M Beckin On WritingSeptember 9, 2018September 9, 20181,374 WordsLeave a comment
A visitor at home
As much as I love traveling, seeing new places and meeting interesting people I am not overly fond of leaving my own home. I like staying in one place, taking in the life around me in little bits at a time, not rushing into things. Some say it’s best to live fast because life is short. I don’t agree, Because life is short I want to give myself time to enjoy it calmly. And I do. So how,you may wonder, do I consider myself to be living my life if I dont like to leave home? It’s simple. For me home is not just one place. Home is where ever I can feel at ease over a given (more than two weeks) period of time. For example I have spent the last four and a half weeks in the countryside at a friends farm where I help the family out as much as I can and in between I use my time for writing and translating. And it feels like home. In fact I love it so much that I feel no need to actually go back to my legal residence in the city. Frankly if it wasn’t for all my friends there that I love so much (and if I could stay here as long as I wanted) I wouldn’t go back at all. And that is the trick. When I travel, I like to stay so long in each place as to make it feel like it is my real home. That I am part of it and not just a visitor. I like to feel useful and welcome, instead of just someone who will pass through and never be seen or heard from again.
This way of travel is not easy, not just because it’s difficult to find the time and money, but because the stay always reaches an end. The place that you have started to think of as a home is not yours to enjoy any longer and the people who come with it may disappear from your life. But it fills your heart and it is much more valuable than a short weekend spent running between museums or frolicking on the beach. Especially, I think, for a writer because it helps you feel at ease. At least this works for me.
By Inga M Beckin On Life, On Travel, On WritingJune 10, 2014388 WordsLeave a comment
The floor is always cleaner in anothers house
I am not now, nor have I ever been, very fond of housework. I don’t loathe it with every atom of my body and being, but I tend to only do housework when I’m procrastinating on something else, especially school work. And that is all true, for my own home.
When I’m staying with a friend or family it’s a completely different matter. Now for example I am taking advantage of a friends hospitality, and spending a wonderful time in the country side, in what I like to call the kingdom of far far away, or the edge of the world if you will (I have a mountain to the north, practically right outside the door and to the east and south nothing but ocean. Oh and there’s a lighthouse. The west is a bit of a mix, and holds the only road out of here, gravel of course). What I do here is my own work, translating a book as part of my MA thesis for creative writing, and helping out on the farm, which includes shitshoveling, sheep- horse- and cowherding and other business, like walking some of the dogs or snuggling with the lambs or kid (as in baby goat, not human child). And last but not least, housework! after a two week stay I have done more vacuuming and mopping and dusting than I do in two months in my own home. And I love it! I’m even considering invading the kitchen later to bake a cake.
I guess housework is just so much more fun when you WANT to do it rather then when you HAVE to do it. Oh, and I may be procrastinating juuuust a tad right now. oh well, back to work!
By Inga M Beckin On Life, On Travel, On WritingMay 26, 2014289 WordsLeave a comment
The what-ifs of life
With each year that passes the what-ifs of my life grow in number. What if my mother had gone to see a doctor before her bad health brought her to a stroke? What if I had chosen a different path in my education? What if I had continued to live with my parents instead of moving out? What if I had decided to stay in the teaching job I got at age 19 instead of going away to university? What if one of my failed relationships had lasted? What if my brother had survived that car accident? what if? what if?
Most of the time the what-ifs dont pop up so much. on other days they torture me, On those days it’s hard to make them quiet again.
But the what-ifs aren’t all bad. In fact I find that my tendency for what-ifs is what, more often than not, fuels my writing. What if there was a person who…? What if my character broke her leg? What if? what if?
What if my greatest flaws, my emotional handicap, my ability to question everything, what if that is what gives me the drive and imagination to be a writer? What if the what-ifs aren’t a curse, but a blessing? and what if, I wrote about all my own what-ifs? Then what if would no longer be an unanswered question.
By Inga M Beckin On Life, On WritingMay 25, 2014227 WordsLeave a comment
It’s been a while since my last post. I’ve reached the end of my second semester as a creative writing student (Masters at the University of Iceland) and it’s been a wonderful winter. This semester I’ve done a lot of creative non-fiction and found out that I am quite good at it. But not to worry, I didn’t let it get to my head, especially since I also took a course on poetry and found out I’m… well… not so good at that. So all in all a great semester, I’m no wunderkind but I’ve found something I’m good at which is always fun.
So I want to try and get back on track here, I’ve been writing so much in Icelandic it’s been hard to switch back to these little nuggets of joy (they are nuggets of joy for me at least, don’t know about the readers). But I am here now, and I intend to try and stick to some sort of weekly post. I will be spending my summer translating a childrens book from english to icelandic as part of my thesis, I might try and write a bit about that process, which i suspect will not be easy. At all. Honestly if I can make it through the summer without my hair turning gray and becoming an alcoholic I think I may be looking at a future job. Or a part time job at least, it’s a tough business to crack.
Anywho, although I said at the start that the semester is at its end I still have a lot of assignments to complete, so ta for now my dears.
By Inga M Beckin On school, On Writing, UncategorizedApril 22, 2014274 WordsLeave a comment
The Sounds of Writing
As a writer, I love the sounds of writing. I love the clickity-clack of a keyboard. The older the keyboard the better. I love hearing the sound of pencil on paper, a marker on a whiteboard or chalk on a blackboard. Even if the chalk or marker makes a squeaky noise. It’s doesn’t matter, it only gives me a nostalgic shiver, memories of lessons learnt in life. It is the sound of writing, learning and living, and I love it. It’s a sign of a thinking being. It’s the sound of someone making new discoveries or reclaiming old ones.
That however is not the only thing that I mean when I talk about the sounds of writing. There are only certain atmospheres where I can really get into the spirit of writing, spirit of creating. The sound I have right now is the sound of wind and birds searching for food in the white world of snow. It is the sound of isolation and peace. (And of course it is, I haven’t done anything but eat, sleep, read, watch TV and knit for the last two weeks. And the reading has been an awfully small part of it. That’s Christmas vacation in a tiny village in Iceland for ya) This peaceful life gives me a peaceful mind… for the most part. Sometimes the peace and quiet can drive me mad. I often find it hard to focus on being creative in my own home, with dirty dishes in the sink, dog hair on the floors, laundry waiting to be done, dust waiting to be wiped and a dog craving attention.
I recently discovered a great thing. As with so many other great things, this is a great thing of the internet. It is a web-page called coffitivity.com. The greatness of this page lies in the fact that I love sitting at coffee-shops and writing. I love the noises around it, the smell of coffee, having some chocolate biscuits with some great coffee and the entire experience. I however am not exactly the richest person around and everything related to coffee-shops or dining and such in Iceland is extremely expensive. So with he aid of this wonderfully simple web-page I have been able to bring the coffee-shop bustle into my own home. I have decent coffee making skills so that is easy to provide, and making some cookies is simple enough too. So there I have it all, at my fingertips. The noise that induces writing and in turn gives me the sound of writing which makes me want to write even more. A delicious cycle of creativity surging through my veins, into my fingers and onto the page. Long live the internet!
By Inga M Beckin On Life, On WritingDecember 29, 2013453 WordsLeave a comment
New places, old memories
Some time ago I was feeling an urge to blog but my mind was a blank. I asked a friend, hey, what should I write about? Can you give me some inspiration? Not really expecting an answer he said I should write about things I need to write about. I should write about things that matter to me, things I really care about, things that matter to me… things that are in some way a part of my soul I guess.
Today I did just that. After many days of late hours and challenging, hard work I took a walk with my dog, sat down on a rock down by the sea, pulled the pen and little notebook out of my pocket and I wrote, and I want to share what I wrote with you, because maybe someone will understand, or someone will find it helpful. And moreover because it’s helpful for me. Writing helps me.
“When I think of angels, I think of you” … and I think of you every day. It’s bitter sweet. I wish all my thoughts about you were of when you were alive and smiling, and not of that awful day 14 months ago. I wish… I wish so many things.
New places don’t put away old memories. Some dull them a bit, distract you from them, but most seem to just put them in new perspective. Luckily for me it seems to usually be for the better. Sometimes they change nothing at all, you grow, but your memories, especially the hard ones stay with you all the same, gnawing at your heart.
I’ve been in a new place for a month now. Something about this place seems to bring me closer to some memories. In this case, for almost every day I have thought about that day. I had to tell my disabled mother that she had lost her only son, my lovely older brother, my childhood hero, in a car accident. It’s a tough memory, and while I had my sisters with me, holding each others hands, embracing and supporting each other, they are not near me now.
While it takes its toll, thinking about this all the time, it is at the same time a good feeling. It’s as if I can finally start to really work through those feelings and memories that before only came in painful bursts. Now they seem to just come in with the tide, riding the waves softly.
This may be due to the fact that enough time has passed for me to think and talk of it calmly, without feeling that I am holding something back in a mental straitjacket. But I believe it is more due to the setting that has me locked in its embrace. Being again, so close to the sea, so close to the mountains, so in harmony with the forces of nature that took my brother away. It has brought my spirit back to the way it was when he and I were kids. Playing in the sand, running in the grass, fishing fry with our mother’s kitchen sieve… happy, free.
I spent four months abroad last year, trying to heal, trying for a little while to forget. I didn’t. I grew, I aged, I learned and I even loved a a little, but I didn’t heal and I didn’t forget. It wasn’t time yet.
I don’t think I can ever heal completely. Losing someone that dear to you leaves a gap in you that can not be filled. But I think in time that gap will stop hurting because I will have gathered memories to store in it. I will dig deep within the database of memory and move those special times we had together to display in there for me to admire and reminisce about.
So to those out there who are waiting to heal, trying to cover the bleeding wounds on your soul. Give it time. Give it air. Some sun. Some rain. The bleeding will stop.
And if you can, get a summer-job in a beautiful small town, work with and meet nice new people and spend time with yourself, for yourself. Love life.
By Inga M Beckin On Life, On Travel, On WritingJune 3, 2013708 WordsLeave a comment
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