Hypnosis

There was never someone named John.
There was never any break.
It never felt right.
You were asleep the last seven months.
All that happened was a dream.
There was never someone named John.
There was never someone you loved.
There was never any end.
There was never any beginning.
You own your own name.
Your name is Clementine.
It was never different.
There was never someone named John.
There was never someone who loved you.
There was never someone special.
It was never real.
You were asleep the last seven months.
All that happened was a dream.
You're not wounded.
You're not hurt.
You own your own heart.
Your heart is Clementine's.
It never was different.
This is your new truth.
You will pretend all that I've said is true.
You may think I'm a fool
But I'm protecting you.
There was never someone named John.
There was nevery any "us".
Your name is Clementine.
Your heart is Clementine's,
And it never was different.
POET in the GLASS JAR

Luftslott

Jag är inte på fötter än,
Jag är inte perfekt
Det finns nog många saker
jag borde ha upptäckt
Jag försöker att känna
Har bara tomhet kvar
Den lilla flicka jag var
Var blev hon av?

Är läxan man lär sig
att falla hårt till botten?
Och det man tar med sig att
man måste ta sig upp igen?
Tänk om jag faller en gång till
Vad tjänar då allt detta till
Tänk om jag inte orkar
eller inte vill?

Jag skrev ett brev till Karma
Varför fick jag det här?
Var det inte bättre om jag
dog, då och där?
Kunde du inte sparat mig
lite smärta, och mörker och så
Har jag inte tillräckligt
med ensamhet ändå?

Är läxan man lär sig
att falla hårt till botten?
Och det man tar med sig att
man måste ta sig upp igen?
Tänk om jag faller en gång till
Vad tjänar då allt detta till
Tänk om jag inte orkar
eller inte vill?

Jag har fått höra att
Det läker nog med tiden
Så var försiktig och
ta ingenting för givet
Men jag är inte naiv,
jag valde dig att lita på
Du var den hörnsten som
jag byggde mina drömmar på

Är läxan man lär sig
att falla hårt till botten?
Och det man tar med sig att
man aldrig tar sig upp igen?
Tänk om jag faller en gång till
Tänk om jag inte räcker till
Om energin tar slut
Vart tar jag vägen då?

Har du inte lärt dig nu
att studsa upp på fötter?
Och att du aldrig riktigt
lämnar dina rötter?
Jag vill inte glömma
Jag vill inte tyna bort
Vill bara låtsas och drömma
Och bygga mina luftslott

Är läxan man lär sig
att falla hårt till botten?
Och det man tar med sig att
man måste ta sig upp igen?
Tänk om jag faller en gång till
Vad tjänar då allt detta till
Tänk om jag inte orkar
Tänk för att jag inte vill

Letter to Karma

Dear Karma,

You've got to be kidding me, right? This gotta be one of your absurd, really surreal little jokes; just to see how long I'll take it before I break, before you can go set everything right again, and everything can just go back to normal. Why do you have to play all the songs we used to listen to, that he used to play, that he used to tell me about? Why do you have to slap me in the face with memories that I don't want to forget? Why did you make me believe everything was alright and dandy, that as long as we had eachother it would work out, as long as I had him, and he was my most important cornerstone. Life without him didn't exist, I got too attached, what should I have done, you suggest? Should I have loved him less? Should I have tried being someone else? Should I have been walking around suspiciously and prepared myself to be left, as if that would be easier?
Would it have made any difference?
Everything, I see now, it's connected, the point of it all to play me a miserable joke. You should know, of all people, that I'm not really very strong. I'm not really very powerful. I've been able to move on every time by chance and endurance, by naivety. Did you really think that would last?
If this is a joke, then quit playing around, I get it now, okay, just make it stop.
I don't know what I'm supposed to be learning. Maybe not to love anyone. Maybe to not let someone that close. But why? I chose very carefully when trusting him, and I did what I could to safeguard myself, but eventually I really fell, and fell hard, what should I be learning?
You seem to want to make sex the most pitiful thing for me, always connecting it to misery, to anticipating disaster. While I have friends who find sex important in a relationship I wish I'd never have to have it. Last relationship, the one I keep telling myself I am still in, was okay, it wasn't filled with angst, I started to view it almost normally. Then you go on in and mark it down as the last time we were together, before it all broke up, what kind of joke is that?
How can you serve me everything on a platter, after I'd been fighting and growing stronger by every disaster that hit me, how can you give it all to me then and makebelieve that I'm happy just to rip it all away again when I start to believe you?
You're fucking unbelievable, you know that?
I'm not even angry yet, like usually I'd always be; I'm just blank and tired and nothing feels fun anymore. Everything is twice the struggle as before - why? What did I do that was so bad, what did I do that I still have to pay for, what was it you think I haven't learnt enough from yet?
How do you suppose I'd ever trust anyone again? When someone who leaves me notes by my bed one day and leaves me the second is the truth I'm trying to face here.
I'm still like a huge question mark. Everything, the last 7-8 months, spinning over and over in my head. What went wrong? What did I do? What didn't I do? Cause there simply has to be a reason it ended, has to be something valid; how could I live with myself while knowing nothing happened for a reason and everything was meaningless?
Is that what you are trying to say? That nothing is meaningful? Fuck you, you know I been down those lines already, you know I already been thinking all those things, why the fuck would I wanna go there again? Can't you leave me be, haven't you done all your damage already? Just when I started to think again, to feel again, I was convinced that it'd be alright, we'd work it out, as long as we were together... and now I stand here with nothing. And no cornerstone.
Is that it? That I scared him away being depressed? What then do you want me to do, never show the truth to anyone I know, never to talk to him about things weighing on me, who else was I supposed to talk to? Did I put too much of my burden on him? Was it impossible for him to bear?
Well then I suppose you should be happy that I booked a therapist's appointment, I'm gonna spill all my heart out to a stranger, because you took my love away. Whenever I see him again, when I decide that long enough time has gone by without us speaking, I'll tell him, and we'll see. But what you gonna reward me for? I can bet already it won't help, it won't bring him back. You'll just say I didn't try hard enough, I only did this to get him back and not to help myself... but why couldn't I do both? Why couldn't I have him there while I tried helping myself, wouldn't I eventually learn the same thing?
I don't want to view all love as something painful, something dark that never turns out right; I want to be one of those believing love can withstand anything, that it wins even in death. But those words are just glorious while written, not in the everyday life, what we have to pull ourselves through daily and that we have to bear with. It's difficult, okay; it's fucking difficult enough as it is; are you getting some kick out of torturing me this way?
Do you really want me to go on some happy pills and then settle for that, and try to win back Rockstar while I do; while you know he's not going to change his mind?

I want to believe he would. I want to believe that just if I said the right words, if I just let him be by himself, if I just... fixed things... we'd be together again, we'd forget everything. I never felt this panic with someone else. Everyone is telling me to move on from it, but they're not the ones with the lumps in their throats, with their darkness in their hearts, with their panic pressing on their lungs. I'm desperate and I just want to forget everything, to have that go away, all the bad things...

Do you have any idea how close I came to calling him? Do you have any idea how difficult it was not to? I felt ready to die there and then, losing faith, losing all. I just wanted to hear his voice again, but in the end I was too scared.

Too scared that his voice would be the same, but unrecognizable; that he'd be saying things I wouldn't want to hear. That he'd tell me to fuck off and never call again, that he would let me know I was bothering him, that he'd once again say the words I just don't love you anymore.

I don't want to live this way anymore. Thursday couldn't come sooner and nor could November 20th, the day I vowed to myself we'd talk again.
POET in the BREAKING JAR

Chocolate Muffins

As long as I don't think, it's okay. Think about you, that is. As long as I'm pondering life's eternal questions, taking care of the darkest parts of my life and ignoring the rest, as long as I stay the night at friends' houses and stay up all night talking. As long as I'm numb from booze, worn out by work, by chores. As long as I work on my site promotion, as long as I imagine I'm really Woven, as long as I imagine writing can take away everything.
As long as I pretend, it's okay.
Queen sang "the show must go on". I listened and wondered about Freddie Mercury's life. I remembered the time we were in the car together and talking about the same thing, and you told me things I never knew.
I remember that when I said I loved you - I meant it.
For all my life when I've said that, I've never, ever meant it, not in this way. Because you were special. We were. Or so I thought.
I remember us laughing, I remember where you were ticklish, I remember this song was really yours. I remember how you looked in your battered leather jacket, and your black shoes, like you were a gunslinger walking up that road to the house at Dad's 50th birthday party.
I remember how good you always smelled. How you found me a little weird when I wanted to smell you. I remember everything that was good about you, and your little habits that you had sometimes, like always choosing clothes for ages, trying to decide. I remember how well you took care of your dishes, how you always made my bed if I had to leave early for work. I remember when you left the recipe for chocolate muffins by my teddy bear, and I didn't notice it until you told me, and how we laughed about that... I remember we used to play Lego Batman and you would always play as Batman and I would always play as Robin and we'd laugh at the sound of his metal shoes
I remember when we took a drive in your Pontiac, your darling
I remember how we used to talk about our money problems and we'd always try to sort things out
I remember us hanging out with my sis and with Hef and that it was all so troubleless
I remember that you always noticed what I was wearing and you could say what I had on at almost any occasion
...except for that shirt dress that you hated and that you snuck away so that I wouldn't find it, you thought it looked like a tent and how I loved that very dress
I remember that I wanted to stop and look at the stars while walking home and you wanted to hurry up because you were freezing
I remember that even though you weren't into writing at all you spent hours trying to find me a new publisher when my old one turned out to be a scam
I remember that you made me a CD with your favorite Beatles songs and I loved every one and I remember how we were watching that movie about them and I fell asleep in it and we never finished watching
I remember how when I thought about you it made my stomach jolt a bit every time even when we had known eachother for months
I remember that I had to hold back not to say I loved you every time I saw you, maybe it was what scared you away
I remember that when calling you there always seemed to be animals on the road and it became a thing I associated with you
I remember you, I remember me, I remember us, I remember everything,
and nothing really matters does it
Nothing really matters to you
And as long as I don't think about all this I'm okay
But I can't stop remembering
I can't stop thinking
And I'm not okay at all
POET in the BLUNT JAR

Another Short Story

There's a short story contest in the newspaper today, and I thought I'd enter. Odds are I don't win the first prize (trip to New York for two) but hell knows, why not give it a shot? Maybe I'll end up with some cinema tickets. I'll have to write in Swedish but I think I can live with that for such a short story, anyways, not really intending to make it epic. I have been away from short story writing for a while and I'm sure it will at least entertain me for a while...

Approximately 2 pages of a very melancholic love story may begin.
3, 2, 1 - Write!

Fake Version (Of You)

Pick those strings
Like last time
I'll listen while you play
All my pain,
dying away

Stroke my neck
Like before
I'll sleep while you're on guard
Only calm,
in my heart

I own a fake version of you
Who comes out when it's dark
It's only a ghost

I know

How do I let go of you
When your things are still here
When your songs still play

And all that was glorious stings

To Crochet

I don't know what I'm trying to do. I have a nagging feeling it's not going to help. In my head there's some childish vision where everything turns for the better and the bad goes away.
In real life, I'm an idiot.
I know my Mum is trying to cheer me up but everything just turns out wrong. Instead I see her admiring my uneven attempt to crochet and can't help but wonder to myself, maybe this is how I should have been. Maybe some needles and some tricks in sewing would make this family a unit again.
All in all I feel worthless. And when Mum asks me to show Dad the crocheting that I was earlier pleased with I toss it away. I can't tell him what it's supposed to be, because I'm choking on air as I do. Mum says with her resignated voice that if I can't manage work, I should tell her, and she'll take the shift, she's only been here since 7AM this morning... My affection for her since before blows away. I say she's being silly. If I can't manage work, I can't manage anything. Sure as hell won't make me feel better to just sit around at home staring at a TV screen, doing nothing.
I can't think a few days ahead in time, I can't... imagine. There's no... future anymore the way I visioned it. Guess we should never imagine the future.
But either way I was pretty happy with my present.
I'm going over to see you tomorrow, basically because I've made you. My guess is you don't want me to come. My guess is you've already said all that you needed to say.
But I don't think I've heard all I needed to hear.
And I think maybe I just have a hard time letting go.
So, I don't know what I'm trying to do here. I don't think anything will make amends. I can't fix you. I can't, apparently, help you with whatever you need. I don't think I will come by you tomorrow and you'll have miraculously changed your mind.
I don't know what I'm expecting.
All I know is I can't be like this. Not anymore.

Vacuum

My thighs are freezing. Why? Because I stayed out too late at the pier, and had too little clothes. I went there to find a quiet corner, watch the lights on the bridge ahead and listen to the ocean. It soothed me for a little while. Before I found myself half over the railing, shoe laces dangling over the water, thinking: I wonder how cold it'll be.
I was starting to get Rose Dewitt Bukater vibes and got my feet back onto the catwalk. And firstly then I panicked. I couldn't breathe.
You don't know it yet, but life isn't supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to be this hard.
She has some wise things to say sometimes, that Meredith Grey.

You said you were worried I'd do something bad. I was worried you would. I guess our history is like that, although we never really saw into the darkest places. We let those places be, just touched on the subject.
I never told you the nightmares I used to have.
Before you.
I never took that extra step. I was never really driven to. I played around with broken glass without trying to cut; I sank below the surface in the bathtub for as long as I could without trying to drown. I put needles in my skin, but only with ink. I thought about it many times... just never... did it.
I didn't do it today either. But I fucking scared myself. And that was enough.
It seems like a mockery just to keep existing. What here is worth my while now? How do I find the energy to do anything? To cope?
You used to make it go away, magically. When I slept and you held me, there was nothing else, not a worry in the world. I felt safe with you. There was just the moment.
How could you make me feel so safe?
How could you look me in the eyes and smile with me?
How could you come so close to me and then just fall away?
What are you afraid of?
What went wrong?

Why can't I understand?

My thighs are freezing. My lungs are worn out and my eyes are swollen. I should go on with my daily life, but how? How do I live in this vacuum, where there's no longer anyone to talk to when it gets dark outside, when our memories have been reduced to my things in a red plastic bag, when nothing holds any meaning?

How can something that felt so right be wrong?

You have tried to explain, you gave all the answers you could give, but my head is buzzing with questions, they won't give me any rest. You said these things are never easy, like you were talking about anyone; someone you didn't know. You made it sound like you'd known me for two weeks. Not like seven months. Was it somewhere there we would have landed? I don't know. Am I supposed to remember? Am I supposed to forget?

It's too early to be angry at you. I wish I was. I want to speed up the process and want to toss your everything out the window, I want to break everything we had so that I can forget about it and move on. I want to be angry with you, I want to hit you, I want to hurt you; I'm just so fucking tired... I want nothing but to sleep, but I can't; I just stare into the ceiling, my eyes are just swelling again; I'm taking 1AM walks along the beach cause I can't sleep...

I want to be angry, cause I just can't stand being this way, I can't be this helpless, it's just not me. I can't walk around with this weight on my heart, I don't know how to do it, I don't know how to carry it, how to tear it. I can't cry anymore, I can't pretend I want to learn how to crochet, I can't get short of breath when I'm reminded of you; I can't want to drop by your place just to get my keys just so that I can see you one more time, just to know you're still there, you're still living and breathing and that maybe I could touch you and maybe you could hug me and just maybe... everything would go away like it always would.

How do I forget?

You said I shouldn't let this get to me too badly, I should think of other things, how do I do that? Could you tell?

How can we still be there for eachother?

How can I still call you when I'm falling apart, when losing you is what got me here? How will you comfort me when I will break by just hearing your voice? In what perfect universe does that work? And why do I still want it to?

Hur kan allting bara vara... ingenting?

Dagger

A dagger to my heart
It stings when I breathe
Blood drops to the floor
I'm not real
I'm not here
Anymore

Material For Author's Projects

Stumbled upon an old folder labelled unnecessaringly neatly "Material for Author's Projects" and started to grin. Here is tons of old story ideas that never really turned out into anything. With two weeks left for Nanowrimo, it's a freakin' gold mine. I want to write something post-industrial and unenduringly depressive, and one of the story ideas in here (complete with plot, which is unusual enough) really fits the scenario. Who knows, maybe it would bring back some of the fun and silliness about writing that was often there when I used to write short stories.

Nothing to lose, right?
POET in the NANO JAR
2 weeks left!

Winter Commences

Gents - ladies - I'm afraid the novel publication will be slightly delayed. This is because we want the cover design to be just right, with the just right person to model it. And it'll take us a bit of time. Have patience through November, and see if we won't be able to do it until November 31st, the same deadline as this year's Nanowrimo. Still didn't decide whether to participate. I'll probably decide on November 1st itself.

Cold streaks around these corners, and I brace myself for the upcoming 5 months of darkness, of Scandinavian winter. It will be dark when we wake up. It will be dark when we go to bed. It will be cold, always. The sun coming out in short moments in the day will comfort us, but it won't warm us. I dig into my closet for my winter shoes, for my winter jacket. My gloves, my extra socks. All the things I'll need when the minus degrees come knocking on my door at night, wanting to break that window, creep into my bed, ice my heart...

I know I'll love the darkness at first. Love the evenings. Think it's charming to dress warm just to go outdoors. But then it will grow tiring. And depressing. And never-ending.

Winter commences.

Welcome to our world.
POET in the SCANDINAVIAN JAR

Cars & Kelly

Actually got up now, something's wrong with me (don't start work until 4 PM). I was planning to do something useful today, for example going grocery shopping and then cleaning my apartment, but I suspect that isn't turning out very well. I feel like novel editing or gaming and I'd much rather do that. I think I'm free from work tomorrow anyway. Can do it then!
Well, pretty much settled now, cause I just got out and moved the car to avoid parking tickets. That means I plan to be staying around here for a while. I don't mind. I like this place, and the best of all is that it's got a proper kitchen table where I can sit down and write. I always loved sitting in the kitchen to do that, strangely.
Up for another round of Mirror's Edge quite shortly,
POET in the DIZZY JAR
PS. Kelly Osbourne is really pretty, isn't she? DS.

The Radio That Rocked

I'm not your average perfect citizen. I don't live up to people's expectations, not even my own. I do my job carelessly, I fight my tears while I do and sometimes I lose. Lately more often than before. I can't maintain a professional aura, I can't leave that chocolate bar be, I'm cleptomaniac, I collect things that aren't mine and every time I borrow something I'm unable to return it until months later. I can't maintain a perfect life, cooking, cleaning; I skip meals and have chocolates instead, I fall asleep while driving, but lie awake at night. I'm a worked out junkie and a drunkie too, I can't cope, I can't do the everyday life. Like Rockstar told me yesterday. While he's always so... neat. Always does things on time. His home is always clean and he washes clothes and dishes and goes to work and does his errands... I don't know how he does it. How is it possible to keep that up so consistently? Why can't I? Why can't I do good for more than a few weeks, a few months, before inevitably I crash again and start to misbehave?
I've always been the happiest when the everyday life isn't the everyday life. When I'm someplace else, doing other things. Or when Nanowrimo turns my life upside-down because of a silly hunt for word count every November. Will I never sort this out? Will I never be able to be happy where I am, see the small things in life?
Anyway, there'd be no point in it, would it. We can read a thousand self-help guides to make ourselves feel better, to "bring out the best" in you or come to terms with our lives, but what does it really do for us? It doesn't make anything better. But it makes you forget that you're just one of billions of people in the world who are just like you, with thoughts, and feelings, and entire lives, just like you; and you get dizzy just by thinking. We aren't really unique. We are all just cogs in the system, and the system isn't meant for people like you and me. We serve the greater purpose. We are slaves. We will live our entire lives working for other people, trying to fit into a context that we didn't decide ourselves, unable to live the way we want because we're always, in the end, restricted. By money, by laws, by society. Freedom? Are we really free? Only because we are in a different place than many countries?
We are not free. We can say what we want and write what we want, because the people who are in charge of things realized that makes us think we are. It makes us happier to be let to dream, even if we are never allowed to live those dreams out.
One of Mum's favorite slogans is that "It doesn't get any better than this". Just accept our lot in life and live with it, and everyone who can't (like me) are weak. I am the black sheep of my family, in that respect. But surprisingly many share her view - why? Have they given up on ever getting close to something they desire and strive for? Have they decided there'll always be those who are worse off than they are? Maybe they know how hopeless their dreams are, and let them be because of that, because they would only get disappointed in the end anyway.
What kind of attitude is that? What we never fight for, we'll never get; but if we never try we sure as hell aint gonna get anywhere. And we'll have ourselves to blame for giving up, even if it's so much more convenient to blame it on everyone else, on everything else.
I don't want things to be impossible. I want to get into my bubble world, where everything is different from here. Some place I imagine inside my head that I fell in love with when I was young and naive. A place that when hardened by life and by bad experiences only seemed more intriguing, and more worth the fight.
We live in an undefined era. Our generation can't brag with having The Beatles, Woodstock, the first cars or the moon landing. We have the internet. We have ignorance. We have an entire people more interested in scandal, sex, and violence than they are in politics or humanitarian work. We have a built-in laziness unlike the generation before us, working 50 years in the same place before retiring and then living on a lousy ass pension. We all want to be special, but prefer the comfy couch at home watching mindless entertainment on TV waiting for the big opportunities to change our lives to come jumping into our laps.
I try to make my own era. What these years mean to me. And right now what saves me in doing that is rock radio station Bandit Rock 105.7. I imagine it's like The Boat That Rocked, where the music changes everything, where it means everything. Today the stations drown out eachother, and no one is broadcasting from sinking ships; but all in all, isn't it the same? That station saves my day, reading my mind to see what song to play next. They play the classic songs and the new songs. They play everything that's rock and everything that touches on the genre. They're genuine. They feel real. And moreover, they have a slogan that goes "We play what we want", which is the only slogan that ever felt real and meaningful to me on all the different channels. Sure, they have a lot of the same songs going over and over. They are probably bribed by the greedy music companies as all other stations are, and sure, they have just as many commercial breaks. But I don't give a shit. This station plays my music. This station has done a lot for me. And even if I'll always be one of their anonymous listeners, I'd come saving them on a rescue boat in the Northern Sea any day now.
POET in the GLASS JAR
With her usual angry style while awkwardly fragile
Beat it if you can't take it

Where The Darkest Is

Don't count me out yet
I'm still in the trenches
And not on the field
My guns aren't fired
Just in self-defence

I crawled all the way here
Through the mud
And the mines
Every one exploded
Every time it made me jump,
and got me tense

Don't let me go just yet
I still have battle rage to wield
I've been where the darkest is
But I'm sure it can get worse
I can get worse

Why not let me do what everyone else does
Let me be until my angst kills me
Until everything blows up and runs out
Until I can't protect myself anymore
And the final shot is misdirected

Don't put me in that state
Before time runs out
Let me have my time

Don't count me out just yet

Mumbo Jumbo & Date for Novel Publication

Is it a wonder that I'm tired of this shitloaded world, this shallow existence? Seems that things will never be above average. Or below average, where I am now. I think I have borrowed money from everyone by now (thank hell Grandma let off my debt to her) and the extra job I got made me have to put out a pretty damn big deal of money, or at least it was to me. Studied 5 gas stations, paid 80 crowns at each. Around 20 crowns at every kiosk I inspected. And in the shops, 7 visits of a solid 500 crowns at every stop, although luckily I could just go back there the following day and return the stuff, and get the money back. Now it's the salary I'm wanting, and it won't arrive until November 25th. Also luckily, I could borrow some money from James so I could finish the assignments. Paid one fourth of it now, and will do two more fourths later today. We'll see, since the return I did yesterday doesn't seem to have appeared yet.

The paperwork should have been finished yesterday, but when I was typing every sentence wrong at around 1 AM, I gave in for the night. I can only hope my reports will do even if some of them were filled out today. Overall, it's incredibly much bureaucracy involved with the entire thing. I have to write the same information in like, three different places, attach each receipt in the exactly correct way, etcetera, etcetera. It just never ends. I can't close my eyes without seeing shoe shops, receipt numbers, return statistics that has turned out wrong, directions written in Mumbo-Jumbo saying different instructions depending on where you read it and from what angle. Gah! I'd say shoot me now, if I wasn't so superstitious that things I say might come true if I mean them enough.

Deadline for the novel is October 31st (this is what we are aiming for). That, lads, is when you'll hopefully be able to order Even Angels Die, EAD, which is my first novel (that I have ranted too much about) and finally read it yourselves. You can either send for it from the US, from where it will be shipped, or you can download it easily as an e-book if it's more convenient for you. I'm afraid the prices haven't been set yet, since the cover design and other choices may affect the price, but what I can tell you for sure is that the electronic version will be considerably cheaper (and the shipping time will be close to zero!). So keep your eyes open! I will alert y'all when the time comes and let you know where to order from, and so on. One step closer to fame, ha, ha.

Only a rough 90 pages left to edit, then a bit of other work. I need to adjust how the chapters are divided, write the acknowledgements and dedications, add a copyright page, set the page numbers right, etcetera. I wish I had time to go over it in a second edit to be thorough with the spelling and such, but I think I'll just run a spell-check within the word processor (OpenOffice Writer, which by the way is a cost-free, awesome program). I have gone over it pretty thoroughly with this first edit (which is in fact the second edit, and yes, it's pretty complicated). Anyway I think I'll live. As I've stated before - even Stephen King makes typos.

I'm longing to get all the paperwork over and done with, so that maybe I could sit down and play some Mirror's Edge. Found the game for PC platform for just 99 crowns in a game shop. Well, y'know me, can't leave a game shop without a game. Bought it, and it was hell of a buy. I only played the first two levels (and died several times before learning) but it looks and feels very promising. If only all gamemakers were like this!

See you in the near future, and don't forget OCTOBER 31st,
POET in the GLASS JAR

Department of Mysteries

While trying not to be jealous at my sis - who is going to Turkey tomorrow (and if I was the one going, it would mean I could meet Alev) - at least one quite exciting thing happened to me today, and guess what, it had nothing to do with writing!
Got a phone call while entering my apartment to fetch the laundry, feeling quite off about most things in my life. Hmm, unknown number. Well, many good things happened to me by an unknown number calling; so I decided to pick up.
Conversation as follows.
"Yes, hello?"
"Hi, is this Rebecca I'm talking to?"
"Yes, it indeed is."
"I see here that you registered as a Mystery Shopper in our database a while ago?"
Finally I understand what this call is about!
"Definitely, yes."
"I have some work for you here next week, if you're still interested."
"Yes, I'm definitely interested."
"Great!"
And as it turns out, I got two days of Mystery Shopping next week at various places throughout the county - luckily I have a car - and it will pay me a rough 2,000 SEK to do it. Could turn out a bit stressful, perhaps, but still. It's 2,000 crowns!
All I need to do is to visit shops, buy what I'm supposed to buy, and then grade the staff and the shop due to a bunch of criterias that I note down and report in. And then when I send the receipts in, I get everything paid back plus a good 150 SEK per every visit (lasting about 30 minutes).
Really, it's quite the relief. I really, really need all the extra jobs I can take and all the extra money. I will try and put most of these 2,000 into my traveling jar (yes - I actually have one of those) and use it to go someplace, sometime. Maybe for the Workaway thing next year. I don't know, all I know is that it's really good pay for not so much work.
Being nervous is just part of it, I guess!
Having butterflies again, and they're not entirely due to this extra merit to put in my CV,
POET in the NOT QUITE AS EERY JAR
Now just hoping to hear about that translator job as well...