It’s already a few weeks past Christmas by now but with being in Denmark, celebrating New Years with Daniel’s family and most of my days spent by my desk working on the novel, I haven’t taken the time to write this before now. Sometimes it’s more important to live, than worry about being timely relevant.
I can’t believe Christmas and New Year is already over! Wasn’t it November just a moment ago? I had blog posts planned for November, then December but never found the time to hit the “publish” button between seeing friends, buying presents and working on my novel. Actually, I can’t believe it’s already been a year since I had my first English Christmas and wrote about it here on the blog.
November and I, we don’t get along. Growing up in Denmark, November meant the most grey, the most gloomy and melancholic month of the year. Long-browned leaves fallen of the trees, leaving the branches naked and stark, no school holidays, nothing to look forward to except Christmas and an even colder January. Just endless, boring days of thick, grey clouds hanging over the world that would make me feel melancholic and restless. The days that held any kind of sunshine could be counted on just one, maybe two fingers.
Years ago, before I went to University and began studying the relationship between literature and art, I started writing little stories inspired by some of the paintings I came across in galleries, postcards and reproductions my parents had on the walls at home. I made up stories about Picasso’s Blue Nude and Hopper’s Nighthawks. I wrote a few of them and then forgot all about it.