The story behind a story

“Why are you writing

‌this..?”

“It’s um..”
It’s personal – that’s what I wanted to say.

“It’s from the heart?”

Yes. I gulped. But it also seems like it’s from so much more than that.
When I write this.
It’s like I’m living through them again – our memories.
And it isn’t just from the heart. It’s from every part of me. And every part of the past. And every part of you.

And I am trying to get you out of my system in the most beautiful way I know how. Because you are the best memory that has been engraved in my self. And this is how I would like to remember you – detached from me.

“It’s from

everything.”


 

I am writing this.. project.. which I hope to one day finish and publish and maybe then finally I will call it a ‘book’. So yeah, I’m not posting anything about it yet except that Im following this writing style (and that the protagonist is a writer). And the whole theme is just so personal I think – to everyone – not just to me. If that makes any sense.

What do we love?

Once upon a time there was a little girl who grew up in a world of science with a head filled with words and a house full of teachers. Every one of them wanted a doctor or a lecturer out of her. And she listened. Because she was good at listening to people.

She was also good in school. She loved going to school. She took so much pleasure in writing narratives and pouring chemicals into glass beakers. It fascinated her – the reaction between certain molecules, the change in colour, the product of purification. It fascinated her – the meaning behind words strung together, the subjectivity of subtext, the necessity of purpose.
She loved them all – both chemistry and literature. But of course, nobody said she could be an editor or a publisher or a writer. How could she? The world doesn’t need them, they said. How could she? All she was getting were the lowest grades. And she knew she was settling because she thought that sometimes the thing you love isn’t the thing you’re good at.

Then it came – letters on printed paper and everything turned backwards.

“Let’s face it, you were never really good in chemistry”
And they were right.

“It’s impossible to get an A for literature”
And they were wrong.
And the little girl didn’t understand.

She was so happy. So very very happy. In that instant she couldn’t care less about any other grade. Her words got her an A. She got an A.  She was so happy she didn’t give herself any time to grieve over the one thing she always thought she was good at.

Because sometimes we question if the thing we love was just a construction of what the world was throwing at you.

Now the little girl does not know.