Om ein liten time skal eg intervjuast av Noregs mållag, så her driv me og intervjuar kvarandre. Det er no også ein måte å vere saman på. Kan vere veldig hyggeleg. Eg trur i grunnen eg skal begynne å intervjue vennene mine i blant, så lite sosial som eg er, og lite oppdatert på kva som skjer, kven som er gravide og i ny jobb og slikt.

I ettermiddag drar eg til sommarhuset (ein hemmeleg stad utan internett eller telefon) for å gjere boka meir ferdig. Det blir deileg. Eg er stressa og surrete og treng arbeidsro.

I går kveld kom det epost med bitar av boka omsett til engelsk, sidan eg skal lese opp for nokre forleggarar frå Utlandet på Lillehammer litteraturfestival 29. mai. Det var eit uventa kick å sjå sin eigen tekst på engelsk. Eg trur kan hende det føltes så overveldande kult fordi eg har lese ein del fantasy på engselsk. Eg måtte i alle fall drikke to glas vin og lese høgt og etterpå gjekk eg ut i hagen og røykte og song høgt.

Sjå kor kult, då:

The woman’s body lies deep; the head of one horse after the other left to sink into the moor above her for centuries. Layer upon layer of sneering, rectangular heads in the peat. They had all been exsanguinated before they were left to the moor.

The woman’s body lying in the peat had no wounds. No tears in the dark leather of her skin. She had not been a sacrifice. She had not been lowered into the moor. She had not died before she sank. She had chosen to lie down and sleep on the moor. And she had slept there for almost a thousand years; she had slept since the big earthquake, and human beings now reckon their time such that it was 950 years after Eletiel.

The peatmoss rested on an island in a fjord. The fjord flowed like two narrow channels around the island, thinning at the north of the island, but gaping around the island, large and broad in the mouth of the fjord. Breath flowed in and out with the ocean’s tides; inhaling, exhaling. The fjord breathed in and out slightly less than two times a day, the water reaching highest around the island about four hours after the moon stood directly in the south. The woman had slept in the peat while the fjord had drawn its calm breath as many times as a human draws breath in its little lifetime. The woman in the peat had not drawn a single breath since she had allowed herself to sink into the acrid water.

The last thing she did before lying to rest was to play out her part in the course of the world. She had a key that would put everything in motion. She had the prophecy of the world’s end. And someone had come who wanted to know everything. The one who would bring her words to the gods and bards, to the world that would end. To those who would die and to those few who would survive and be remembered.

This was her fate, in this world as in the last, and as it will be in the next. She carried with her the prophecy of Ragnarok and would deliver it when it was time.

Weeeee!

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