Out of Season

I hereby announce that I cannot for the life of me write anything decent in Norwegian. It simply does not work, I am no Bjerke.

The class is reading "Utanfor Sesongen" ("Out of Season", in bad Alexian translation), by Hovland, to get to grips with our New Norwegian verbs and set our sea (or new norwegian)-legs again. New Norwegian is also another horrid translation, but it does seem to be in use and I know I've discussed it as New Norwegian in English previously. And though it is a decent parody of the crime novel as a genre, it lacks an actual plot. In its defence, something akin to plot seems to be surfacing halfway through the book, but I am not sure it answers to the conventional idea of one.

Hovland isn't a bad writer, but he's not terribly interestig either. The characters are bland - though I suspect that might be part of the parody - and he doesn't have me in stitches nearly long enough to excuse them. Hovland certainly has a good grip of the crime clichés, and has some wonderful parentheses about them, but I suspect he just isn't an accomplished enough writer to make those snide comments that will have readers reading through their tears, as they try not to laugh, and choke half-heartedly instead. If his characters, lack of plot and at times bad language is inteneded as part of the parody, he is barking up the wrong tree; however, he might be in the right forest.

And to balance out Hovland - not really, I was just stupid enough to leave "The Sea, the Sea" at home this morning - I read "The Importance of Being Earnest". It was an absolute delight. Wilde is just so effortlessly funny, and charming, and utterly wonderful. I'm going to read some more Shakespeare, I think. More specifically, his plays about the Richards, to begin with. And I think I might have a go at "Sense and Sensibility", the last time I tried re-reading it I only got halfway.

Fall is weaving its web around Norway again, and we have just had the first glimpse of what's to come. Huge, looming clouds, wind, twirling leaves, rain and cold. I do love fall, I just wish I could be more prepared when it arrives, I never am and always end up wishing I'd brought a coat.



I wrote something yesterday. But all I can do is muse about my doings, and that is really not much for good fiction. The writing is doing a halting, six feet deep jig.

Out of Season

I hereby announce that I cannot for the life of me write anything decent in Norwegian. It simply does not work, I am no Bjerke.

The class is reading "Utanfor Sesongen" ("Out of Season", in bad Alexian translation), by Hovland, to get to grips with our New Norwegian verbs and set our sea (or new norwegian)-legs again. New Norwegian is also another horrid translation, but it does seem to be in use and I know I've discussed it as New Norwegian in English previously. And though it is a decent parody of the crime novel as a genre, it lacks an actual plot. In its defence, something akin to plot seems to be surfacing halfway through the book, but I am not sure it answers to the conventional idea of one.

Hovland isn't a bad writer, but he's not terribly interestig either. The characters are bland - though I suspect that might be part of the parody - and he doesn't have me in stitches nearly long enough to excuse them. Hovland certainly has a good grip of the crime clichés, and has some wonderful parentheses about them, but I suspect he just isn't an accomplished enough writer to make those snide comments that will have readers reading through their tears, as they try not to laugh, and choke half-heartedly instead. If his characters, lack of plot and at times bad language is inteneded as part of the parody, he is barking up the wrong tree; however, he might be in the right forest.

And to balance out Hovland - not really, I was just stupid enough to leave "The Sea, the Sea" at home this morning - I read "The Importance of Being Earnest". It was an absolute delight. Wilde is just so effortlessly funny, and charming, and utterly wonderful. I'm going to read some more Shakespeare, I think. More specifically, his plays about the Richards, to begin with. And I think I might have a go at "Sense and Sensibility", the last time I tried re-reading it I only got halfway.

Fall is weaving its web around Norway again, and we have just had the first glimpse of what's to come. Huge, looming clouds, wind, twirling leaves, rain and cold. I do love fall, I just wish I could be more prepared when it arrives, I never am and always end up wishing I'd brought a coat.



I wrote something yesterday. But all I can do is muse about my doings, and that is really not much for good fiction. The writing is doing a halting, six feet deep jig.