I like her a lot, this author of ours. Not only is she a beautiful blonde woman, but she has character. Her blue eyes smile while her sharp tongue never ceases to comment on the world around her. She’s street-smart and I admire her bold attitude. Her mind racing around like a young cat, jumping from one subject to another, making fun of everything it touches on the way. Her novels reflect this, she is a flexible storyteller and her easy way of building the plot and humorous dialogues seduce the reader. Once you start reading, you´ll want to finish the book.
Right now she is working on her next novel. A few years ago, while working with her editor, my colleague, on the plot of her second novel, she asked me that life-changing question:´How about you, Mare, don´t you have a good story for me to tell?´ I suddenly realized there and then that I did have a story. If I told her, she would be able to pick it up, change it around and make it into something of her own. At that time, I had but the most frail and tender image of this story. Nobody knew of my dream to be a writer, but I knew that I wasn’t going to give this story away. It hit me hard: it would be mine to tell.
I had myself to blame. Ever since the drama in my inner garden started, I loved to tell some of my colleagues at work about it. They knew all about me living on that small peninsula, in that old little town by the sea. I kept them well-informed of the latest developments. I mostly tried to make it sound like a drama. A soap opera. They laughed as I ridiculed, but only a little. The facts were enough to make for good jokes, it didn’t need a lot of exaggeration. Whereas I did need an outlet for all these events that took place on my doorstep. This talking about it forced me to cut the events down into understandable and bite-sized bits. It made the persons involved shrivel up till they were flat as could be. I knew while I was doing this, that I didn’t do right to the real story nor the people involved.
I don’t remember how I got myself out of that situation with the author and her editor. Of course they were not at all dependent on my telling her anything. She is more than capable of finding her own subjects. I do know that a greater story than the shreds I threw around like confetti, lies within the inner garden. Well-hidden underneath all that superficial drama. It needs to be dug up carefully, pulled out from under all that surplus information by someone who cares. This requires enough distance and perspective on my part. I know I’ll be ready some day, I’m not in a hurry. It’ll be worth it.
Maai’s Creative Portfolio 