Category: Writing (page 2 of 3)

Posts about writing and/or selling books.

My meeting with John Hart!

Today I had the privilege of being able to experience John Hart, award-winning author of books such as Redemption Road and Down River at my local library in Bergen.

It was a magical experience. He talked a lot about where he gets his inspiration from and how he creates his characters. But what I’d like to show you, my dear readers, are the tips he gave me as an up-and-coming author. Hopefully someone other than me will be able to utilize these tips as well.

I can only speak to (sic) my own experience, but I think that this can be a universal thing.

The world is full of people that will tell you you cannot do it. My mother literally said “don’t waste your time, you will never get published.” This was after she read my first two unpublished novels. Maybe she’s onto something! But I cannot listen to her; I would have stopped.

Had I listened to all the agents who rejected my first novel or my second, I would have stopped. Had I listened to the surgeon who’d heard I had quit my job to write my third novel, who accosted me in a coffee shop, poking me in the chest, saying “Who the hell do you think you are, the next John Grisham”, I would have stopped.

So, I think there are a lot of reasons for this. I mean, people walk away from their aspirations all the time, I mean, it’s just a hard world. If they see you walk away from yours, then maybe they feel better about their decisions. If you go on to become the next Jo Nesbø, then maybe they should not have walked away from their dreams.

So, it’s just the way of the world – there are people like that. You need to find people who understand what you’re trying to do, and will be supportive.

But – be careful about people you ask to read the manuscript. I’m going to tell you this from my own experience – there is no creature as insecure as an unpublished writer. I’m not saying that’s you, but that was me – in a very specific way. If you’re looking for someone to read your manuscript, it’s going to be someone you trust – obviously.

If they tell you that it’s brilliant, you’re probably going to think they’re being nice and not believe them. If they tell you it’s horrible, you’re going to be crushed, and you might never write again. It’s very, very difficult to find the right reader – someone who’s opinion you trust, who can deliver it in an honest, caring way. I was lucky in that my wife is great like that. And if I succeed, it’s great for both of us, so, she’s very capable of that honesty. She’s not going to leave you down the primrose path.

So I think those would be my two pieces of advice. The world is full of writers that will say “take classes, join workshops” – I never did any of that, so I can’t speak to that. I do think that there are countless rookie mistakes that keep you from being published – not you specifically – it’s very important to learn what rookie mistakes are. I don’t know at what level you write, but I did read a few books early on. Just “How to avoid passive voice,” “How to show, not tell,” you know, the proper use of certain types of punctuation, so that I’m able to present a manuscript that looks knowingly done.

Because publishers and agents are very, very busy, they’re very, very jaded because they’re inundated with manuscripts. They’re so busy with the ones they already have that are working, people that are selling, working on the next book and need this, that and the other. Thus, it’s hard to find the time to nurture the new voices. So, you need to be very careful to not rush the manuscript out.

And let me give you a personal anecdote: so, the first novel failed, the second novel failed, it was my third that was published. And this is a rookie mistake, and this is how eager I was. Remember I talked about that insecurity? What I wanted was validation – I wanted somebody in the know to say “you weren’t foolish to do this a third time.” So I think I was probably about ten pages away from finishing the book, when just on a lark I emailed an agent the first chapter, thinking “well I’ll hear back in maybe six weeks.”

Well I got an email that night from her assistant saying “Heidi really loves this, why don’t you send the rest of the manuscript?” I hadn’t finished the book! So I wrote like a madman for the next couple of days. But when I sent it off, I hadn’t edited. And then I got rejected. I got rejected and rejected and rejected. For nine months I got rejected, before I finally did what I should have done in the first place, which was to step back. I had done that through all those rejections – for nine months, I had not looked at the manuscript. I went back and read it with some perspective, and I saw all the problems that were obvious to everyone that said no. Plotholes, tin dialogue, overwritten purpley stuff. And I fixed it!

Three months of rewrites, I sent it out, and the first agent that saw it wanted to represent me. So understand that, yes, there are lots of agents and publishers, but you only get that one shot at the first impression, so don’t undo your good work by rushing it. It’s very tempting.

I hope that helps!

Third chapter from Murder in Lima

– Did you shoot many men?

Anastasia was white in the face.

– It was front-page news in all the big newspapers. But you’re … a Belarusian, aren’t you? Anyway, they killed my wife and child. I completely lost it. I lost my job in NCIS, but they didn’t find me guilty of murder. The perps had weapons and were preparing the biggest shipment of cocaine in Norwegian history. But obviously, I should have called for backup. Fortunately, I got a job as a reporter afterward.

– You did the right thing, said Petter. Without you, maybe we’d experience a generation of young adult Norwegians growing up to become cocaine addicts.
– Thanks, said Kurt and flashed an apologetic smile.
– Thank you, Kurt, for the gripping story. Now, my friends. While we wait for the food we will be served, I want to show you the reason for inviting you here tonight, John remarked.

He pressed a button under the table. Slowly but surely, a video screen slid down from the restaurant’s ceiling next to them.
When it was completely down, John turned himself and his chair  towards the screen and picked up his cellular phone, a Samsung Galaxy Beam I8530.

– Kurt and Rebecca, please turn. You don’t want to miss this!

Both turned around as John put the mobile on the tabletop and started an embedded projector.

– What’s that?

On the screen, a room in a salt color palette appeared.

– This, my friends, is a fire, bullet and bomb safe storage room in the house. Right now it contains only two things: the paintings I just appropriated, Autumn in Bavaria and Several Circles.

John pressed on the screen of his mobile phone and Kurt noticed that when he did it, the camera in the room began moving. Soon it had zoomed in on a painting that represented something that looked like an alley surrounded by trees. The alley led to something that looked like a church spire far away.

– My God exclaimed Petter. How much did you give for this again?
– About 206 million. But you already know that …

Petter sighed.

– Still, cannot believe that you got Autumn in Bavaria so cheap …

Kurt turned to Petter.

– Don’t you read newspapers? Aftenbladet just wrote a story about how the selling price was at a record high.

John smirked.

– Quite unflattering, that portrayal …

Petter snorted.

– I could have paid twice that amount if I wasn’t busy that weekend.
– There, there, said Anastasia and patted Petter on his back. You can do it next time.

Just then Hugo Friis came out of the restaurant building beside them with two deep plates.

– The first dish, he announced. Northern Norwegian fish soup!

All eyes around the table turned to him as he placed the plates in front of Kurt and John.

– Bon appétit, he said.
– Is that fish soup, asked Rebecca.
– Yes, it is, said Kurt.
– Looks tasty, said Rebecca.

When everyone had eaten chowder, John once again turned and directed everyone’s attention to the screen.

– As you should know, I also purchased another painting, Several Circles.

Again he pressed on the mobile phone, and soon a new painting had emerged on the display.

Rebecca gasped.

– It’s gorgeous!

The painting consisted of several circles of different sizes on a matte background.

– It is even more beautiful in reality, replied John. It reminds me of space.
– Didn’t Kandinsky say that it was his favorite painting, Anastasia marveled.

Petter nodded.

– That’s right, dear. He never managed to surpass it later in life, he said.
– So, said Karl Homme and gazed at John with a sly smile. A bird told me that you had purchased Casa de Aliaga from the Aliaga family and live there now?

John sent Karl Homme a look of astonishment.

– How did you know?
– I have my sources. It’s pretty sad for Lima’s many tourists, but all the better for me.

Karl grinned.

– I planned to dedicate a chapter in my new book to it. Now my book will become even more popular. Because I may come to visit, John?

John sighed but smiled wryly.

– Of course, you may.

Karl smiled.

– Many thanks! For those of you who do not know, Casa de Aliaga is the former house of the General Jerónimo Aliaga. It was bestowed upon him by Fransisco Pizarro himself, so that they could be neighbors. Aliaga was Pizarro’s most trusted general. He was involved in the execution of Atahualpa, the last Aztec king. Is the sword still in the house, John?

John smirked.

– Nothing escapes you, does it? The sword was one of the treasures that the family, unfortunately, insisted on retaining. Which is understandable, given that it is over four hundred years old.

*

– Should we go to the top of the pyramids? John wiped his face with a napkin.
– Sounds like a good idea, said Kurt and put down his spoon.
Tiramisu was the best desert Kurt knew about. But right now he was so full after two portions of Ceviche that there was a half eaten Tiramisu left on his plate.

– Agreed, said Karl Homme. Let’s go, he declared, standing up immediately from his chair.
– I’m old and tired, and can’t bear to go there. But I can certainly join around the rest of the site, declared Rebecca.

John smiled.

– That’s fine; I can pick you up later.
– How fascinating, said Anastasia. Is it possible to view the whole city from here?
– Well, parts of it, in any case, said John.

Kurt took up a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it before he got up from his chair and joined the little train of people which was moving towards the pyramids, led by John Fredly.

– How long did it take to build these, asked Kurt as they were halfway up the biggest pyramid.
– No one knows, responded John.
– They sacrificed young women and babies to their God of the seas, said John. He pointed to some skyscrapers on the horizon.

As John had arrived at the top of the pyramid, Anastasia started to scream.

– What’s up, asked Kurt. He still had a few meters left to go before he reached the top. Watch out, screamed Petter as John came falling towards Kurt in at a furious pace with his back first.

He held his hands to his throat and landed in the arms of Kurt with such speed that Kurt almost toppled from the impact. Kurt laid down John Fredly and stood over him with a worried expression on his face as Petter’s and Karl’s faces emerged from the top of the pyramid.

– Are you all right down there, Petter and Karl shouted to him.
– He’s shot in the chest, said Kurt. He was dead when he landed in my arms.

A few hours later, Kurt Hammer found himself in a dark glass building in General Vidal Street number 250. More specifically, in a whitewashed interrogation room. Two young police officers with black caps pulled well down on their foreheads sat across a small table with a microphone in front of them.

Because Kurt didn’t know much more than tourist-Spanish, the local police station had spent almost an hour finding an officer who knew more than primary school English.

Eventually, they found one that looked as if she’d barely finished the Police Academy.
Now she stood in a corner and simultaneously translated the ongoing conversation. She looked at them with weary, slightly triangular Peruvian eyes.

– … what makes you believe he is shot, Mr. Hammer?
– The fact that he has a bullet hole through his chest?
– … So why was he dead when he landed in your arms?
– Figuring that out is not my job. But he held his arms to his throat when he hit me.
– Well, señor Hammer. That’s all for now. You may go, but until you are checked out of the case you may not leave the country.
– Wasn’t planning on it.
– Senorita Lopez can follow you out.

Kurt stood up. He took out a cigarette from his breast pocket and put it in his mouth before going to the young lady in the corner.

– Excuse me, but this is a non-smoking area, señor Hammer.

Kurt just nodded and walked out of the door. Behind him, he could hear a resigned sigh as the young lady closed the door.

When Kurt was standing on the street, he looked at his watch as a black cab with a yellow and black checker pattern on the side stopped to pick him up. The time had crawled to two AM.

As Kurt entered the whitewashed reception of his hostel, a sleepy French man with dreads sitting behind the counter greeted him.

– Kurt! Where have you been? Not on the wagon again, are you?
– At the police station.

The French man had presented himself to Kurt, when he arrived, as Jean-Luc. Now he rolled his eyes.

– Haha, very funny.

Kurt was too tired to explain further, so he left the lobby, heading for his room.
When he had locked himself in the red room, he sat down on the edge of the double bed and began to undress. He put his light blue Hawaii shirt and jeans in a neat pile on the floor beside the bed.

Finally, Kurt put his head on the pillow. He knew that he was not going to be able to sleep.

Second chapter from Murder in Lima

By Felicia Alvdal and Frank Hansen
The paintings Several Circles and Autumn in Bavaria by the Russian artist Vassily Kandinsky (1866 – 1944) sold during the weekend for 15 and 18.9 million pounds, respectively, at Sotheby’s in London.

– Kandinsky is a very popular artist, and I expected that these came to be sold for much. Yet we are overwhelmed by the result, said auctioneer David Bennett NTB weekend.

Record

The previous record for a painting was 11 million pounds, and was beaten by the sale of Several Circles. This record was then beaten again by the sale of Autumn in Bavaria. At the end of the bidding process there was a fight between an unknown Russian buyer and the Norwegian tax fugitive John Fredly.
Fredly’s spokesman Hans Eriksen said to NTB;
– John Fredly has been interested in art for all of his adult life, and Kandinsky is his favorite artist. That the price he paid for these works is a record is just a footnote in the grand scheme of things.

Unsure

Asked whether Fredly would like to lend the paintings to a museum to share the works with a larger audience, he replied;
– This is something he has not yet considered. It is not impossible that it will happen in the future, but if so it  will be to a Peruvian museum in Lima, where he lives.
The Russian buyer refused to be identified, but said through his spokesman;
– We are very disappointed with the result. Kandinsky is a part of Russian national history, and does not belong in South America. We are willing to pay Fredly twice the purchase price over ten years if he wants to sell, and informed him of this.

Won’t happen

For Fredly, this is unacceptable.
– Fredly is going to keep the paintings at his home in Lima, Peru in the near future, where he will enjoy them with his family and guests, concluded Eriksen.

 

My new book – Murder in Lima

Murder in Lima - Cover

Murder in Lima – Cover

My new book has been under way since this summer, and is finally ready to be revealed to the world! 😀

As per usual, janielescueta has done an absolutely gobsmacking job with the cover – he exceeded my expectations and then some. If you’re looking for a cover artist, look no further.

With that out of the way, here is the prologue for the new book. I hope you’ll enjoy it! 😀

A black Mercedes Maybach Pullman pulled up outside 34-35 New Bond Street, London. The creamy white marble facade with two showcase windows on the ground floor housed one of the most fashionable auction houses in London.

From between the second and third floors glistened gold letters which formed the name “Sotheby’s” in the rain. A man wearing black bowler hat and coat stepped out of the driver’s seat. He closed the door behind him and walked with determined steps to the back door which was situated nearly five meters behind the front of the car. As he opened it, he bowed and said, “Welcome, sir!”

– Thanks!

The man answered and went out of the car was light brown skin and had black, curly hair lying in a neat bundle on top of his head. He was wearing a tan leather jacket under if he wore a dark blue polo shirt and an orange t-shirt.

Around the neck, he had a green cotton scarf that stood in stark contrast to glasses with black frames which he wore at the tip of the nose.

He arrived at the stately black doors with gold handles that constituted the entrance to the Sotheby’s auction house. There, a tall man wearing a black coat and top hat greeted him.

– Please hurry, sir, he said in a perfect Cockney accent. “The auction begins in five minutes!”

– Thanks, said the man with the green scarf. I guess I have a reserved seat?

– Of course, answered the tall one and opened one of the black doors. “Welcome!”

My playlist for curing hangovers and depression

For the past week, I’ve been struggling with anxiety and depression. It’s been quite bad.
Today I was awakened involuntarily by my dad. He was calling about something pertaining to my bed.

Now, normally in this situation, I wouldn’t even have managed to get out of bed, and I would have been extremely annoyed by the awakening.

Not in the least because I had been out last night and had gotten extremely little sleep. But yesterday must have been a katharsis, because today I just got out of bed and got right to the task of creating a playlist for curing hangover and depression. It might not be the end-all be-all of playlists, but it is designed to make your day just that little bit sweeter.

What’s more, it is collaborative, so  you can add your own favorites should you wish. So without further ado, I present to you the playlist entitled “Hangover and cure for depression”. Enjoy!

 

A chance encounter

Me and Francisco Yabar

Me and Francisco Yabar

“I’m good at recognizing faces.”
The tall, chubby man in a dark suit outside Museo Naval del Peru looked at me, wondering whether or not I’d been there the day before?
“I have,” I said.
“Where are you going,” he said, smiling.
“To Miraflores.”
“I’m heading in that direction, follow me!”
He was accompanied by a young woman in a uniform, and I quickly realized this was not a man accustomed to being told “no, thank you.”
“Are you the director of the museum,” I asked. He gave me a nod.
“I’m a retired admiral in the navy,” he explained.
When we’d entered his car, he asked me where I was from. “Norway,” I answered truthfully, and explained that I’d gone to the museum looking for information about Kon Tiki and/or balsa wood rafts.
“Thor Heyerdahl’s son, Thor Jr, attended a dinner party at my house. During the dinner I got a phone call from the navy telling me I’d been promoted to admiral. I turned white as a ghost. It turned out that Thor Jr had been involved. He’s very adept at convincing people!”
At this point I was already star struck, but managed to keep my calm.
“You’re coming home with me to take a picture. You’ll send it to Olav Heyerdahl, Thor’s grandson. You know, Olav planned the Tangaroa-expedition in my home.  The Kon Tiki II expedition was also planned in my home.”

Me, in admiral Yabar's house

Me, in admiral Yabar’s house

“That’s awesome,” I admitted. The truth, of course, was I couldn’t find words to express how cool I thought it was.

During the car ride, I expressed my fascination with Thor Heyerdahl.

“You know, I have a funny story about Thor,” he said. “When I was much younger, working in the navy,” I attended a lecture by Thor. I bought a book of his, and wanted it signed. But after the lecture, he was surrounded by professors, military officers and politicians. Then, after a while, he notices me standing alone in a corner. He breaks out of the crowd and comes my way. “Hey, kid, what do you want?” I held out my book, and he signed it for me!”

The impossible made possible

To ancient man, the oceans were not barriers, but pathways.

– Thor Heyerdahl

69 years ago, an anthropologist – who had been doomed to fail by an entire scientific world – banded together an unlikely crew consisting of a navigator and artist, a fridge selling engineer, a couple of telegraph operators and a Swede, and set sail from the port of Callao heading for Polynesia.

But what they were sailing was not a boat, it was a fleet constructed from balsa wood.

The original Kon Tiki

The original Kon Tiki

Everyone who heard about the adventure thought they sailed to their certain death. But 101 days later, they surfed over the Raroia-reef and showed the world that the impossible was possible.

There aren’t many places abroad that one can get a close encounter with Norwegian history. Norwegians are a rare breed, and we keep mostly to ourselves. Even when we were going to be imperialists, we happened upon some of the most remote pieces of land known to man, land that no one else cared about.

But the port of Callao, half a world away from Norway as the crow flies, is one of the places where Norwegians have not only made their mark. From the port of Callao, we changed world history. Perhaps Polynesia was not populated from the east, but that is only a footnote. Thor Heyerdahl showed the world that pre-Incan civilizations could sail, and that they have had contact with Polynesia has later been proven.

Me, at the port in Callao

Me, at the port in Callao

On the twenty eight of April, 1947, an adventure was started that made Norwegians large not only in their own eyes, but in the world’s. As I sit here watching the sea and thinking about the fact that the palm trees that grow behind me have probably been there since 1947, it strikes me that this place, which in some ways looks like any major port in the world, is a temple to something as un-norwegian as standing out. If the Law of Jante is yin, this place is its yang.

The law of Jante states in part: “You should not think you are better than us.”

A cannon in the port of Callao

A cannon in the port of Callao

Thor Heyerdahl not only thought, but knew he was better than the rest of the scientific world, and he proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you as a Norwegian have been wondering about the reach of the Law of Jante, I now have the definitive answer: it extends to Callao.

Review!

Trouble in Trondheim was reviewed by Ida Elise Østberg of ByMarlida, and received three of five stars. I’m so grateful!

I hope this is not the last we see of Kurt Hammer, because he is a main character I would love to continue to follow throughout more adventures!

– Ida Elise Østberg

The book can be bought now on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, and B&N!

Book finally available!

My latest book, Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, is now finally available in digital stores everywhere! It can be bought at Smashwords, Amazon, Kobo and Nook.

troubleintrondhem

To celebrate, here’s another chapter!

Twenty-sixth of January, 2012

Olyas mother died suddenly. After her coffin was lowered into the earth and the families had departed, Olya was left to herself when she got home.

In her heart, she knew he would come home as he had done countless times before. When she heard the front door being opened just after midnight, it, none the less, presented itself as something of a bad dream.

«Olya, are you at home?! »

She lay with her eyes closed and hoped he wouldn’t come into the room. Was the door locked, was the door locked, was the door locked…

«Why don’t you answer, you cheeky little piece of shit?! »

She opened one eye and peered out from one edge of her quilt. He reeked of Stolichnaya.

«You’re drunk, papi, go and lie down. »

«What, are you talking back to your papi?! You fucking whore! »

He tore off her quilt, lifted her up by the scruff and threw her into the wall.

«It’s your fault that she’s dead, you know? She had heart trouble from taking care of you, you ungrateful … »

She assembled what little she had of powers and butted him headfirst. He staggered a bit before falling, hard. She ran as fast as she could through the hallway, into the kitchen and tore up the nearest kitchen drawer. Panic stricken, she grabbed a bread knife. Then she heard that he had come into the kitchen – with the knife in both hands she turned to face him, horrified.

«What are you going to do?! Come and take me, » he sneered.

Unable to move, she could only stand to see that he approached with unsteady steps on the tattered kitchen rug on the floor. Finally, his face was less than a meter from hers.

The next thing that happened should be seen in light of her mother’s bruised and swollen eyes. Anyone who saw her knew, but no one said anything, not even at the funeral. All the years of beating, name-calling and shit stirring were discharged at the moment she drove the knife into him. A few seconds of silence followed before he whispered;

«Help me, Olya, help me! »

Her thoughts disappeared back to her mother again, she saw her lying in a pool of her own blood in the morning while he slept in in their bedroom. Her beautiful golden hair was sticky and disgusting; she had to help her into the bathroom, undress her, shower her and massage her. All without saying a word – «silence said more than any of us could have formulated by opening our mouths, » she thought.

Her five-year-old self went around him; her twenty-year-old self pulled up the carpet before closing the door behind her.

*

Among Moscow’s population is whispered a proverb: «Man has not felt cold on his body before he has experienced winter in Moscow. »

Midway between several meter-high snow banks on either side of Tverskaya Street, she was now facing what amounted to miles of shop facades. A few meters beyond the block she lived in some of them were still open, even with thirty degrees below zero outside. On a stand she noticed a newspaper front page with a picture of Putin and his wife. At the top she could read «Divorce» typed in screaming letterheads.

She picked up a copy of a newspaper and went into the little grocery store behind the stand.

«Olya, right? »

She nodded meekly to the bearded giant behind the counter, showed him the newspaper and left a ruble in front of him.

«Condolences! Greet your papi from Oleg, he must be absolutely horrified now … »

She smiled and muttered «Thank you, I will, » before she went out again. No sooner had she closed the door, before she stopped. How was it he had looked at her, the old pig? She tore off a piece of newsprint and wrote down her address. Then she paused for a few seconds, before she adding “30 minutes”. Finally, she went back in, handed him the note and disappeared again without saying a word.

Back in the apartment, she opened the kitchen window onto the side street and aimed at a rubbish container she had opened. Olya summoned superhuman strength, eased her father’s body onto the kitchen counter and pushed it out the window. The fall from the twenty-second floor was spectacular. If he wasn’t already dead, he was guaranteed to be as he landed headfirst far below. She let out an involuntary shout of joy as she slowly became filled with relief over the fact that that as someone found the now dismembered body below, she would be far away.

Soon, a knock could be heard emanating from the front door. No matter how much it filled her with disgust, she forced herself to down a glass of Stolichnaya before she went to open it. In the hallway she walked past a mirror: the dark curls she had from her father were bursting in all directions, but there was nothing she could do about it right now. Her verdigris almond eyes were her best feature, she knew, so she took a little eyeliner from the dresser before she applied a coat of lipstick to her voluptuous lips. The red color matched with the hair and eyes.

«You are one fourth Spanish, » her mother had said one day Olya came home from school. Somehow, she had always known it. «My papi was Spanish, » her mother said with a smile and winked at her. She’d never mentioned him before, but it explained the golden color of their skin. The night had been particularly hard, which was probably the reason she mentioned him now.

«Did he die … » before I was born? »

«He probably did. He lived in Málaga, you see. My mami brought me here just after I was born. She was homesick, but never forgot about papi. »

«Come, » her mother said and pulled her into their bedroom. She sat down onto the bed and patted beside her. «Here, » she said and handed her a faded picture from her wallet. To the left of her mother stood a man with almond eyes, a nose that was slightly too big for his face and an utterly charming smile parked in the middle of a forest of a beard. On his head he wore a sailor’s cap slightly askew.

«He could have been my papi, » said Olya. They smiled at each other for the first time in a long while. With the image of her grandpa fresh in mind, she went and opened the front door.

Oleg was even larger than she remembered. Before he could open his mouth she enunciated an insane sum. He opened his wallet, gave her cash and stepped over the threshold.

A few hours later she stood in one of the counters at Sheremetyevo airport.

«Do you have a ticket to Malaga for eight thousand rubles? »

«Hmm, not until well into the next month, at least … » but you can get to Trondheim, Norway for five thousand in a few hours! »

She thought about it. Norway was a rich country, wasn’t it? » Her papi had said so at one point, he had been fishing there with a buddy. Apparently, they had really big salmon there, too.

«All right, she said finally. I’m going to Norway! »

Finally done!

So, it finally happened. I finished Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, and you can read the first 15% here. You can also preorder it from there, so you’ll get it on the 29th of March.

Soon, previews should be available from iTunes, Kobo and Nook also.

This is a monumental achievement for me, because it’s the longest novel I ever wrote. Right now I am immensely proud.

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