It seems that every year winter must have one last hissy fit before spring turns to summer. This week has been such a fit. Enough snow had left for the new one to smell and feel like the first of winter.
I was delighted today when a french fry had that taste that takes you back to being a child and picking potatoes in the backyard. Cold, wet, murky and earthy. It’s always nice when artificial stuff like crisps or fries taste like that; a reminder that nature was involved at some point.
When this happens, it’s almost always a one-time thing. This time they all tasted like that. Turns out my béarnaise dip conspired with my settling cold or flu to give that impression.
Given my personality, it was no surprise that my resolve to write more never really resolved itself.
I read in a newspaper the other morning that genre fiction is on the up and up in Sweden. That’s bit of an exaggeration; it is mostly horror that has become popular, probably since John Ajvide Lindqvist did his thing few years back.
Perhaps there is a place for Swedish science fiction after all.
Writing genre fiction in Sweden is still mostly a crime novel affair, which produces books that some foreigners bafflingly think are good.
Still. Perhaps I should poke at Swedish a bit. See what comes out.