Writing

‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed’.

Ernest Hemingway

I would like to introduce you to some of my creative writing.

‘IKEA’ was part of a MA essay about the identity of a name, written in 2020. ‘Seeds’ is from my anthropocene-focused MA thesis, and I have chosen to only share the introduction here as I am currently rewriting the plot.

IKEA

Do you know the feeling of walking through Ikea on a Saturday? I have quite often heard people (for some peculiar reason, usually men) describe it as a rather utopian setting. The rooms on display are aesthetic and unblemished, the kitchens impeccably tidy (which in itself is utopian), and the path throughout the store is suspiciously well-calculated, equipped with secret passages ready to bewilder enchanted customers. Yet, what truly stands out to me is that every single piece of furniture, whether it is a tiny polka dotted bedroom lamp or a large grey couch, has its very own name. Growing up in Scandinavia (Norwegians are willing to put aside their sibling-rivalry with Sweden when it comes to Volvo, Abba and Ikea), I know the feeling of walking through Ikea on a Saturday too well, and I must confess that I used to utterly adore this sense of individuality that my red heart with arms-teddybear was entitled to bear – Famnig Hjärta. This genius level of marketing baffles me in every way, and I am not going to lie; my naïve, childish perspective of the world still lingers in my (debatably) grown up mind, which has been trained to recognize consumer traps, to be aware of marketing, and most importantly; to distinguish individualism from mass production. It is with a mixture of awe and great mistrust that I must confess that Ikea indeed blurs the line between the two extremes quite successfully.

Extract from SEEDS

Cleo lays down the note with her father’s handwriting onto the glass table in front of her. She pulls out an old navy-blue booklet from the large beige envelope in which a letter is waiting for her to be read.

My dear daughter. I want you to have this. You know I trust in you, for you have the grace, purity and loyalty of a swan; qualities I never possessed. If you proceed to read this journal of mine, you might be disappointed in me. The expressions of regret I shared last week were alien to you but will likely soon be as clear as the waters from the time in which my journal begins. It is not too late to give a voice to the seeds of knowledge I have buried; it is only too late for me. I should have been better at protecting you and your mother, I should have kept you safe. But I couldn’t even keep myself safe. I was planning to come visit this weekend and tell you this in person if it weren’t for my cancerous lungs, but the doctors think I might only have weeks if not days left. What matters now is your future, and my last mission will be to prepare you for what may come. Even though you have become a swan, you will forever be my little duck. Forgive me. Your dad.