Simona Ahrnstedt's Blog, page 121
December 7, 2014
Skräckfilm
Äldstingen hetsade mig. Ville se en skräckfilm ihop.
Så vi såg The Conjuring.
Gömda bakom alla soffkuddar och utan ljud under långa partier.
En gammal god tradition.
Så såg jag Omen med min mamma.
”Hur sov du?” frågade jag imorse.
”Bra.”
”Var du inte rädd?”
”Nä.”
”Bra, inte jag heller”, ljög jag.
Fy fan vad den var läskig.
Andra advent
Antal julrelaterade saker som finns i min lägenhet just nu: 0
Barnen ska tydligen fira jul hos mig i år.
Lobbar nu stenhårt för att slippa julgran.
Har aldrig hänt förut.
Blommorna och granen brukar vara det jag ändå gillar.
Jag dricker kamomillte och redigerar.
December 6, 2014
Herregud så bra hon är!
Kresley Cole
Wicked Deeds on a Winter´s Night
Jag är helt besatt av den här boken.
På pappret är det inte alls min sorts romance.
Det är Lykae, Magick och häxor och folk med spetsiga ögon.
Men COME ON.
Den är så BRA.
Miljöerna, karaktärerna, tempot, jösses.
Hettan (oh my).
Och sjukt rolig.
Om den kvinnliga huvudpersonen:
”She was what was known as an underachiever, which even än underachiever knew was sociology code for overfailer.”
Ha ha ha haaaaaa!
December 5, 2014
Och oktober & november
(Ja, bilderna är pyttesmå, ni får se det som en cocktailmix eller bridgeblandning)
Releasefest hos Denise Rudberg
Bivald och jag
Signering med Caroline Eriksson
Med Åsa Hellberg på Forumfesten
Rosa champagne innan Forumfesten
Lunch med Pernilla Alm, Susanne Boll och Sandra Gustafsson
Och sen blev det september …
Jag var på Författarkliniken och pratade om romance
Åsa Hellberg och jag föreläste ihop
Bokmässan – Stefan Ahnhem, Åsa och Anders Delamotte
Partaj med pinglorna – Pamela Andersson Alselind, Pernilla Alm, Susanne Boll och Åsa Hellberg
Johanne Hildebrant och jag signerade böcker
Per Schlingmann och jag på Forumfesten
Bildkavalkad augusti 2014
Jag kommer successivt återgå till att blogga bara här.
Men jag har separationsångest, kommer sakna mina gamla inlägg och mina bilder.
Så jag sammanfattar mina månader hos Books and Dreams genom att blogga en del favoritbilder.
Först ut är augusti:
Min förläggare Karin Linge Nordh och min redaktör Kerston Ödéen förbereder releasefesten av En enda natt hos Akademibokhandeln.
Fina gäster på releasen. Ebba Blitz, Malin Persson Giolito och Martina Haag
Forumförfattare: Anna Fredriksson, Ninni Schulman, Caroline Eriksson, Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg och Suzanna Dilber
Även Carina Bergfeldt hade release. Här med Susanne Boll.
Lunch med Anna Fredriksson och John Häggblom
Fika med Bivald och Bergfeldt
Release för Katarina Wennstams Skuggorna
Naaaaw
Tack Liljeholmens bokhandel!
Mary Doria Russell
Det finns texter som stannar i en för alltid.
Jag vet inte om jag någonsin har läst ett utdrag om en bok som kommer ens i närheten av detta.
Författaren heter Mary Doria Russell, hon har skrivit en av de mest enastående, obeskrivliga böcker jag läst: The Sparrow.
Nedanstående utdrag är ur boken A Thread of Grace:
”This is what everyone would remember about his mother: her home was immaculate. Even in a place where cleanliness was pursued with religious zeal, Klara’s household was renowned for its faultless order. In Klara’s mind, there was no gradation between purity and filth.
She had sinned as a girl, made pregnant by her married uncle. Adultery stained her soul black, and God punished her as she deserved. Her sin-child died.
So did her aunt, and Klara became her uncle’s second wife, dutifully raising her stepchildren, keeping them very clean and very quiet, so her uncle-husband would not become angry and bring out his leather whip. Her husband was no more merciful than her God. Her second son died, and then her small daughter.
Soon after she buried little Ida, Klara became pregnant again. Her fourth child was a sickly boy whose weakness her uncle-husband despised. Klara was ashamed that her children had died. She hovered over the new baby anxiously, told him constantly that she loved and needed him, hoping that her neighbors would notice how well he was cared for. Hoping that her uncle-husband would come to approve of her son. Hoping that God would hear her pleas, and let this child live.
Her prayers, it seemed, were answered, but the neighbors were bemused by Klara’s mothering. She nursed her little boy for two years. He’d squirm away, or turn his face from her, but she pushed her nipple into his mouth regardless of what troubled him. She fed and fed and fed that child. Food was medicine. Food could ward off numberless, nameless, lurking diseases. “Eat,” she’d plead. “Eat, or you’ll get sick and die.” It was immoderate, even in a village where mothers expected children to swallow whatever was put before them, and to clean their plates.
In adulthood, Klara’s son would have nightmares about suffocation. He would suck on a finger in times of stress, or stuff himself with chocolates. He was obsessed with his body’s odors and became a vegetarian, convinced this diet reduced his propensity to sweat excessively and improved the aroma of his intestinal gas. He discussed nutritional theories at length, but had a poor apetite. He could not watch others eat without trying to spoil their enjoyment. He’d call broth “corpse tea,” and pointed out that a roast suckling pig looked “just like a cooked baby.”
Whenever he looked in a mirror, he would see his mother’s eyes: china blue and frightened. Frightened of dirt, of her husband, of illness, and of God. Her son, too, was frightened. Frightened of priests and hunters, of cigarette smokers and skiers, of liberals, journalists, germs and dirt, of gypsies, judges, and Americans. He was frightened of being wrong, of being weak, of being effeminate. Frightened of poets and of Poles, of academics and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Frightened of moonlight and horses, of snow and water and the dark. Frightened of microbes and spirochetes, of feces, and of old men, and of the French.
The very blood in his veins was a danger to him. There were birth defects and feeblemindedness in his incestuous family. His uncle-father was a bastard, and Klara’s son worried all his life that unsavory gossip about his ancestry would become public. He was frightened of sexual intercourse and never had children, afraid his tainted blood would be revealed in them. He was terrified of cancer, which took his mother’s life, and horrified that he had suckled at diseased breasts.
How could anyone live with so much fear?
His solution was to simplify. He sought and seized one all-encompassing explanation for the existence of sin and disease, for all his failures and disappointments. There was no weakness in his parents, his blood, his mind. He was faultless; others were filth. He could not change his china blue eyes, but he could change the world they saw. He would identify the secret source of every evil, and root it out, annihilating at a stroke all that threatened him. He would free Europe of pollution and defilement–only health and confidence and purity and order would remain!
Are such grim and comic facts significant, or merely interesting? Here’s another: the doctor who could not cure Klara Hitler’s cancer was Jewish.”
December 4, 2014
Författarjulbord 2014
Sju Nio, vi var tydligen NIO, kvinnor.
Författare. Julbord.
Prat, skratt och väldigt, väldigt mycket mat.
Bra grejer.
Marika King, Agnes Hellström, Åsa Hellberg
Carin Gerhardsen
Jag, Åsa, Carin
Dessert (Glömde ta bilder på det andra)
Författarbejbs
Carina Bergfeldt och jag
Hej hej vinkade vi till sjuka Suss.
Agnes Hellström
Bra tradition det här!
