I have written stories all my life. And before I wrote them, I told them—or so my mom informs me. Seems I had a vivid imagination even then.
Actually, I do remember being confronted on occasion about the veracity of something or other I had told a neighbor about where we had been on vacation, and what we had done—we had visited Africa apparently, hunted lions, that sort of thing, the stories were never timid. And I remember that I had actually invented a word to cover my tracks with.
In Swedish (I grew up in Sweden) this word was ifan, short for “i fantasin,” meaning literally “in the fantasy.” When cornered by detail and questions like “Where on earth did you get this from?” and “Did you tell them this?” I’d don my best innocence and invoke my fantasy defense. No, mom, I wasn’t lying, it was in fantasy. For there was one crucial difference, at least in my view: lying was not okay—this had been explained to me at length, speaking “in fantasy” was okay.
Writing a story is living the story. I lived my stories even then, they had happened, even if only in fantasy.
And sometimes, when writing goes really well, I no longer live the story, the story lives me. And when it does, mid-story, or mid-chapter in a novel, I will wake up of a morning, eager to get to my keyboard to find out what will happen next.
Swedish Stories
Growing up in Sweden, naturally, I wrote my first stories in Swedish. They were not very good. I remember starting a boy detective novel at age ten. My journal then (an extremely sporadic occurrence) reflected not plot nor setting, but only the number of pages written (and they were not very large as pages go) and the grand thought that if this novel sold really well, I would turn it into a franchise, with a long series of them, all pursuing the adventures of my clever protagonists—two young boys, naturally. I believe I got up to page 28, or so the journal claims, and does not proceed beyond that. I have never found these pages, and that might be a good thing.
The first story that lived me got me into trouble.
This story was about a wolverine and a reindeer, from the wolverine’s point of view. It was a school assignment, we wrote this in class. Must have been third grade, or fourth, which pegs me at nine or ten—I started school early.
From the start of the story, I left the classroom and very in fantasy transported to Lapland, to the chase. I rushed through snow on broad paws, I leaped from tree onto back of reindeer, I tasted blood, and all so vividly fast. There was no part of me left in class, although someone was still guiding the pencil across the lined paper of the exercise book, forming words, sentences, and paragraphs.
This story lived me, from beginning to end, and I remember this experience as quite the epiphany: quite the “what on earth happened?”
The story was good. It was very good. In fact, it was so good, that no one, not my teacher, not my parents, nor my friends, believed that I had written it. I was called on a very serious carpet and explained to, at some length, about plagiarism and stealing. For I had stolen this story, that was not even in question, the question was where. And for that I had no answer.
I was, of course—and unfortunately—the boy who had cried wolf quite often, caught in lies on a regular basis, so by claims of innocence fell on mostly deaf ears. I say “mostly” for there was one person who did believe that I had written it, my maternal grandmother, who somehow, I learned later, got a hold of the story and kept it for years—though at her passing a few years ago, there was no sign of it.
In retrospect, this nearly universal disbelief was quite the vote of confidence, though I didn’t see that at the time. I believe the effect was that I was wary of writing anything now, for fear that I’d be accused of stealing again.
By the way, I later tried to recreate this story, and you can find that attempt, named, what else?, “Wolverine,” here.
Into English
I left Sweden in 1969, and have not lived there since. English has now been my first language for twice as long as Swedish was.
When it came to writing stories, that made for a problematic 1970s and 1980s: which language?
Well, at first, there was no question, my English was not good enough for fiction, nowhere near, so what little I wrote at that time, was in Swedish.
Then, as will happened from underuse, my Swedish touch (that instant feel for the bon mot) faded, and I had yet to acquire it in English. I felt myself mid-leap across a chasm separating the two languages, and in mid-leap I stayed until the mid 1980s when I finally took the plunge (had the nerve to) and wrote an English story. I remember it well. It was called (and still is) “The Visitor” (and which you can read here).
And I knew that I was not so far off in my English by then, for once I got into the story, it began to live me, and when we came to the end, the story and I, the resolution came as an almost shock to me, stood my hair on end.
Precedence
Still, would I have the gall, was I sufficiently pretentious to assume I could write in English, other than as a sort of harmless hobby? Could I write, for real, in this adopted tongue.
Believe or not, took quite some comfort in some of my predecessors, by which I mean, great writers whose first language was not English. And I think then primarily of Joseph Conrad, Isak Dinesen, and Vladimir Nabokov.
Conrad was Polish by birth, and apparently didn’t speak a word of English until his late teens; yet he’s regarded as one of the masters of the tongue. Dinesen was Danish, and Nabokov, of course, was Russian. They all had the nerve to excel at the use of English.
So why not I?
I saw no good reason why not.
Two Windows
Though I have vacillated over the years: ah, that I would have been born in England or in America, so that I would have absorbed the language from birth, have had it work its way in through my pores, as it were.
At other times I’ve counted myself lucky to be bilingual, for it seems that this facilitates getting to the fundamental concept of a word, what it really means, letters aside.
What I mean is: The word “table” is “bord” in Swedish. Often, there is no real differentiation between the thing and the word, so for the unilingual the word table is often the thing table. Or the word bord the thing bord.
I found myself having two windows on the world. I found myself with the thing, or concept table, and then, looking out my Swedish window I’d attach the word “bord” to the concept/thing, and looking out the English window I’d attach the word “table” to it.
Perhaps I’m deluding myself, but it seems this gained me a closer relationship to the concept/thing, and that this has helped my writing.
At the least, it has not hindered it, since I still, twenty-five or so years later, still write with relish, in English
Story Length
When it comes to fiction, there are sketches—some may even call them prose poems—short stories, novellas, and novels. Each of increasing length.
A sketch, in my view, is a brief (sort of haiku-like) story. A paragraph or two.
Someone (it might have been Chekhov) said that a short story can be read in one sitting.
A novella is either a long short story, or a short novel.
A novel seems to be anything that tallies about 80,000 or so words.
Of course, with increased space comes increase complexity, like a tree, the larger it grows, the more branches, the more roots.
I like the novel for it is a universe, and when it lives you, you are enthralled.
Some of my novels are so short I call them novellas.
Some of my stories are so long I call them novellas.
Mostly these days, I write novels, and the occasional short story.
Story Access
On this site I will post both sketches and stories, as well as some extracts from novellas or novels, all under the “Stories” tab on the menu bar above.
Please stay a while, take in a story or two. I’m happy for your company.
Ulf Wolf