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Some days I just feel I can't do it, I can't write in English, at least not well. Some people around me have remarked that my bar for "well" is set pretty high and I don't agree on this. My bar is as high as in my first language, on the same level as when I hold it up against decent English language writers. There is no special structuralism of language created for second fiddlers, no bail-you-out-of-jail card for foreigners, if I wanted thick upholstery around my linguistic ass every time I fall on it, I should have built my nest in a Swedish creative writing college workshop.
But days as these every piece of funny wit and slang hurt my ears, every piece of prosaic splendor makes me pregnant with a bulimic green monster until I have a fat belly of green creatures gnawing on my insides to be born, except all they make me do is feel anemic.
I love language, but I don't want to use it for masturbation, I want to make babies with it, SHINY babies that make sense.
Back in Sweden, whatever job you have, when you work, every working hour contributes to your state pension. So, if you leave that country, every day you are away, you get less state pension for your old age. And of course, over here, no-one cares if I starve when I'm an old lady. My best bet to survive this mentally is to not sit down and stare bluntly at what I've given up - particularly since no archivist ever gets rich, as far as I know.
And with language it's the same, when I write in Swedish nowadays, it comes slower and is flatter.
What the fuck have I done, I must be mad as pants.
But days as these every piece of funny wit and slang hurt my ears, every piece of prosaic splendor makes me pregnant with a bulimic green monster until I have a fat belly of green creatures gnawing on my insides to be born, except all they make me do is feel anemic.
I love language, but I don't want to use it for masturbation, I want to make babies with it, SHINY babies that make sense.
Back in Sweden, whatever job you have, when you work, every working hour contributes to your state pension. So, if you leave that country, every day you are away, you get less state pension for your old age. And of course, over here, no-one cares if I starve when I'm an old lady. My best bet to survive this mentally is to not sit down and stare bluntly at what I've given up - particularly since no archivist ever gets rich, as far as I know.
And with language it's the same, when I write in Swedish nowadays, it comes slower and is flatter.
What the fuck have I done, I must be mad as pants.
