Paperback writer

Waiting at a train station, a classic scene stretched out between the imminent departure and the eternal delay. Grey benches, a piece of dark chocolate and that dream of one day being able to write a novel. I think of alternative settings: mist in 14th century Trondheim, contemporary nihilism in a seminar room or the transient nature of every truly meaningful encounter.

I know some of my (personal) pitfalls: the use of clichés, the lack of intersubjectivity and the inability to write realistic dialogues. Instead of a novel, I have to accept that my Moleskine holds another blogpost.

Sometimes I have these fantasies of writing a mediocre bachelor or master thesis over a weekend and a box of valpolicella, of allowing myself to be absorbed in the universe of words without all that hampering academic reflexivity and discourse awareness. I remember some rainy February days of 2004, how I just wrote away, ten pages at the time in inexplicable bliss. It is a paradox of my profession that we spend so much time fearing words even as nothing makes us happier.

"In Kürze erreichen wir Alvesta. In Alvesta haben Sie Anschluss zum Regionalzug 7543 in Richtung Kalmar. Wir verabschieden uns von allen Gästen die in Alvesta aussteigen…" - unfortunately only in my germanophile mind, but nevertheless, it is time to wrap up this post.