Svovlvinter

Plötsligt händer det! Idag har jag skrivit avtal om översättning av konfluxsviten till danska. Min agent Brandt New Agency har förtjänstfullt förhandlat med det danska förlaget DreamLitt som nu kommer att översätta och publicera serien på danska. Avtalet gäller alla fyra delarna i serien.

Det ska bli intressant att följa hur den danska översättaren tar sig an detta inte helt triviala uppdrag och jag räknar med att vara behjälplig i den mån vederbörande så önskar och behöver.

Det känns verkligen som en lättnad att ett utländskt förlag äntligen har visat intresse och vem vet, kanske kan det bli fler så småningom. Tillsammans med förra veckans publicitet i Svenska dagbladet ger detta mig rejäl uppmuntran inför fortsatt skrivande.

(Huruvida första romanen verkligen kommer att heta Svovlvinter eller om det ens låter bra på danska vet jag förstås inte.)

Flight of the Bumblebee

Ytterligare ett smakprov översatt till engelska av Dominic Hinde. Denna gång ur Vredesverk, så viss SPOILERVARNING om ni inte läst boken än. Illustrationen är en målning av Nicholas Roerich, en av mina inspiratörer.

Like mice scratching and scraping in the walls in the small hours, strange sounds emanated from the furthest corners of the palace. Heneguya knew that the most eager of the plunderers from Tricilve had reached them. Crashes echoed and the sound of splitting wood could be heard, though slightly muffled by the walls in between. Laughter, running feet and loud cries could be made out in passages where until recently groups of high-born aristocracy had paced in earnest conversation. The Empress watched and listened, keeping distance from the events like the audience in a theatre – even if she would soon be forced to take to the stage herself. Suddenly someone tried the lock on the door to the throne room and she involuntarily jolted up, awoken from a dream already exhausted. She was inclined to confront the intruders, for she had been a formidable regent, but managed to suppress the impulse. How many years had she worked and negotiated for these people’s betterment in the place of her unfit spouse? How many years trying to help the same people who would now defile and destroy her world? To what end?

The palace was soundly constructed and the Chalkland guards had barricaded the entrances as well as they could in the few hours given them, but neither the doors nor the walls were designed to withstand an attack. It was only a question of time until the plebs found their way in. The Empress lifted her age-old ancestral pendant from her neck band, opening the front to look at the silver ring and its fragile chain. The pressure in the room rose, a sign that the air spirit Basenanji was ready to carry out whatever she might order. He had always been there, powerful but invisible to all. Maybe the being could protect her. In her youth the bards of Trastamara had sung ballads telling of how these slaves of generations had gone into battle for her ancestors, crushing armies under flying blocks of stone and blowing whole armadas to splinters. Air spirits were strange creatures that nobody really understood, but through the years she had been left with the impression that Basenanji was a peaceful sort who reluctantly showed his violent power only at her behest. He was perhaps even a touch melancholy in these older years of his thralldom. She did not have any great desire to sully this servant who had obeyed her and her ancestors for hundreds of years with the blood of thousands of people. Even if she could escape, where would she go? Neither Chalkland nor Trachoria, nor any of her other old friends would want anything to do with her. No, she was a Trastamara and would not be humiliated. Her old combat tutor had told her that the Knights of Bansikan could never be beaten; only crushed as a single intact entity. Should she, an Empress of the oldest blood, fare any worse?

“Basenanji”, she said as tools were put to work on the door to her sanctuary.

“Basenanji, we require a final and great effort on your part, our servant. In exchange you may then rest for as long as you should like, in a place and manner which suits you at your leisure.”

A low murmur whistled through the room, a sign that that air spirit was listening attentively.

“We have always desired to meet the clouds eye to eye, just as you yourself met them when you were young and free, but we shall travel as befits us with our entire palace. Can you manage it?”

It became so oppressively silent for a moment that even the looters outside the door stopped what they were doing. Then the whole building began to shake. The empress rocked back and forth on her throne, afraid she had asked too much. Then everything levelled out again and she felt a weight push her stomach down into her hips. Out in the corridor cries could be heard, but this was not the Empress’ concern. Heneguya stepped dignifiedly down from the throne and over to the largest of the room’s stained glass windows. It was impossible to open but the empress took hold of a poker from the fireplace and beat out the glass and lead frame. She and her palace were in the heavens, the warm wind of the mountains flowing into the room as a surprised albador looped by. Far below she could see the Coimatri River weaving its ways east, clear as a mirror until it reached the great waters of Lake Malossi. There was only the odd cloud to be seen in the sky, which was perhaps the reason Basenanji had been hesitant, but a tiny cluster glided towards them, barely larger than a haystack. It thudded softly against the palace walls, at which point the air spirit turned the building so that the empress could reach it from the window. The cloud felt cool and fluffy to her touch, and she had a sudden urge to climb out onto it and to see if it would hold, sweeping over the earth for all time up where nobody could touch her. In the meantime though she had other plans.

“Basenanji, turn the palace so that we can see the city!”

At once the world around them rotated so that her head would have been sent swimming had she not been used to the movements of the building. A few people, presumably having clung to an outer staircase, fell screaming to the ground far below. She did not command the air spirit to rescue them though, for they had come to plunder and had only themselves to blame.

Heneguya had to shield her face against the afternoon sun with her palm in order to glimpse the capital city as never before. Tricilve seemed tiny from above, and not even the imperial palace on its little mound could impress any more, though she knew how much the craftsmanship had cost as a gift in kind for the privileges granted them by Radassabar. The street kitchens must already have begun preparing for their evening diners judging by the sickly yellow colour hanging over the city. The empress toyed with the idea of ordering Basenanji to direct the palace over Tricilve to bid a final royal farewell to her subjects, but lost the urge, perhaps because from that height the place seemed so small and poky. She felt endlessly wearied by it all, as if the perspective gained by such a view had reduced in importance her life and everything she cared about. A familiar shaking of the walls indicated Basenanji’s powers were waning and the air spirit would soon need to rest; despite his strength he was aged. Heneguya walked over to the toolbox her guards had borne in at her request before disappearing and drew out a heavy pair of pliers. She sat on the throne and opened up the pendant with the silver-link chain shackling the air spirit. It must have been cast at least five hundred years before, yet the metal resisted more than she expected. Only by clasping both levers of the pliers firmly in her hands could she muster the force to clip through it.

“You are free, Basenanji! Thank you for everything!” she shouted as the bonds were broken. Then all she could do was laugh as she was struck by weightlessness, kicking off of the throne and floating in the middle of the room. “Look Basenanji, I am free too!” she cried. I am a floating cloud!”

From the deck of the Chalklandian stanelast, Legate Ludenbrand had watched the air spirit lift the palace higher and higher into the sky, until the people standing at its windows, or clinging to its doors balconies and climbing plants, became impossible to make out. He held perhaps a vague hope that the empress and her home would float away out of reach of the plebs, but also a foreboding knowledge deep inside of how the flight would end. In any event, he howled in terror as the chain was cut and Basenanji departed from service, leaving the building to fall. By that point the vessel had made enough progress out into the bay that no screams could be heard. The palace seemed to fall so slowly that the crew could not take the whole thing seriously, until they heard the roar of impact roll out over the water a few seconds later and a dust cloud surged up into the sky. Pik Tambra, where the building made landfall, was an overgrown sandbank, but the sheer height of the drop meant what lay beneath was of little importance. Ludenbrand sunk to his knees against the balustrade with a copy of Retribution jerked closed in his lap – his closest companion in mourning.

“Justice shall be done”, he whispered over and over. Just an ounce of shame accompanied the thought that his chronicle might now contain a climactic conclusion.

Smakprov på engelska

Översättaren Dominic Hinde har översatt fem smakprov ur de tre konfluxromanerna till engelska. Nedan finns en av dessa texter för påseende, en bekant scen ur Brimstone Sleep, kapitel 31. Min agent, Brandts New Agency, kommer att ta med texterna till Londonmässan senare under april och visa dem för intresserade förlagsrepresentanter från andra länder. Notera att det alltså inte rör sig om avsnitt ur en fullständig översättning utan just om fristående smakprov.

De stycken som översatts är:

Svavelvinter
Kapitel 29 Eld från himlen
Scenen när Trodax tar sig ur gruvan. (Scenen fanns redan översatt av Martin Andersson och har redigerats.)

Kapitel 31. Mannen utan öde
Scenen när Silvia Miranda vaknar i Shaguls grav.

Slaktare små
Kapitel 3. En blå Meridian
En enda sida om när Grisselhår och Perrima seglar tillbaka till Trakorien.

Kapitel 39. Den pilske prelaten
När Didra och Robur samtalar och kramas.

Vredesverk
Kapitel 10. De åldriga ödlornas arv
När draken attackerar magillernas styrkor

Kapitel 43. Humlans flykt
Om kejsarinnan Heneguyas död

A man without fate

 Silvia Miranda the wind witch was awoken by a faint draught across her face, the remnants of a foreign breeze, odorous and until now reticent to come so close to a human. Deprived of her ether she could neither understand nor identify it, but she knew she was not dead at any rate – in the underworld there is no wind at all.

Her limbs were leaden, as if her body had been emptied of blood and her arteries occupied by thick quicksilver. Her thoughts were clear though. Fear of the unknown is something every conjurer must suppress from the first tears of childhood to avoid being crushed upon fathoming the endless possibilities their art can grant.

She lay in the damp half-dark, on a stone table covered with dead rustling leaves. Over her stretched naked branches that had surrendered their bark to the soil long ago, but beyond them there was no sky, only vaulted stone. The shadows of sprawled limbs patterned the walls in perfect but lifeless arrangement, carved in an unmoving blue light as if the whole scene was drowned in set glass. Underground. Sealed off. Still.

A procession drew slowly closer, its steps revealed by the still rustle of feet moving leaves. The sound reached an audible level thanks only to the contrasting silence. The weak breeze that had visited her immediately petered out into nothing. A man moved into her field of vision; she recognised him immediately from their disturbing ethereal meeting at the basin in the underworld. This time he came as one person, not three, but he had the same round, bare head as his projections. His green eyes looked down in cold assessment, the eyes of an executioner in powerful sockets. The man felt her lame body, not with desire but as to assure himself of the solidity of her substance. He placed his hand on her stomach and let it rise and fall in time with her breathing.

“Warmth”, he said slowly and lay down next to her on the stone altar, turning his cheek to her left breast as if to relive a lost, primal memory.

Another hand, yellowed and withered with its bones sticking out like newly hatched insects at the extremities of the ring and middle finger, suddenly stretched toward her. The man batted it away, irritated.

“Master Honsula! You cannot touch everything simply because you lack eyes. Be mindful of your privileges, I can just as easily bury you again whenever I like – and keep you conscious in your grave.”

With great effort Silvia Miranda turned her heavy head and saw three, no four, figures standing silently at the end of the altar – dead, contorted and ravaged by time but animated by the stranger’s necromancy.

The reprimanded Master Honsula withdrew his hand without a trace of disappointment. She saw his eyes had been sewn shut with a rough black thread. The dead figure next to him had its mouth tacked closed in the same manner. Honsula, where had she heard the name Honsula? “Our guest was until recently a man”, the living one informed his companions. “Does that perhaps dampen your enthusiasm?”

A lunatic. Silvia Miranda tried to study him from the corner of her eye. He pulled himself up on his elbows and into her line of sight when he noticed her efforts, chatting slowly as he lay with a finger caressing her chin like a sated lover.

“Your sleep revealed your name to me and I already know you better than you could imagine. Until it was decided otherwise you were a man by the name of Ramilard. The Narrators - I prefer calling them that as Gods is such an overblown word – it was the Narrators who changed you, removed bits and rewrote others so that now you have always been a woman. I had nothing to do with it myself but for my part I can say that I find you much more agreeable like this. Though your love I cannot perhaps count on, rather… mutual respect and a crumb of warmth. One does not apply any value to warmth until the alternative is apparent. It can be hard to fathom the Narrators of our world. They do not want us to understand, robbing a snake of its legs when it tries to help us to knowledge, punishing us with challenges and eternal travails when we reach for the forbidden fruit. They want us to worship them and play our roles, to be born, live and to die. But they no longer exert that kind of power over me, and I can offer you your salvation even if you are willingly enslaved to the God of Storms. Think it through calmly! Here there really is no urgency to anything.”

A dry leaf settled in the hollow of her throat. He plucked it up and held it against the blue light.

“This was a strong and hardy tree, chosen for its ability to grow underground, but the leaves are more beautiful dead, you can see all of the veins. I appreciate a beauty that does not change. They merely molder imperceptibly slowly. When plants are alive you always worry about them withering and crumpling, is that not so? I used to collect chicks as a boy, but they always died as soon as I had developed an attachment – as unpredictable in their vitality as women are in their love. When I was young I liked the idea that every leaf was unique, that two leaves have nothing more in common than the label we have given them for quite practical reasons. In those days I was fond of wandering in the forest below the mountains. Now though I know the truth. The lack of any one unique form detracts somewhat from the experience. A leaf is a leaf is a leaf, the same tiresome reproduction of the same tiresome idea, their name. Did you know that if you changed the Narrator’s written word for ‘leaf’, the real one that only exists in one single place, all of the leaves would vanish? Not because it is within my power to do so, but if you could delete that one word then none of the leaves would ever have existed. All those songs about greenery and girls with wreaths in their hair would change at a stroke. Who knows what you would sing about? Perhaps the poets would extol the virtues of… the gut instead?”

Silvia Miranda tried to collect herself. She had apparently been captured by a necromancer, in connection with the unearthly predator she had encountered at the temple of Kmorda. But where was she and with what purpose? Underground, yes, but where? She was under his control, but her aura could not be kept out forever – it would collect and give her back her power if she was given time. Who was he? Had he lost his mind? It was not unusual for powerful magicians, especially illusionists, to lose all perspective and vanish into their art. It was said that in Coro Partena they dug up an old master magician when they were building a carp dam. The man was sealed in a copper urn from an ancient civilisation. Pale and mushy like a tape worm, he turned to steam in the sun without anybody being able to understand who he was or make sense of his flat and increasingly desperate babble.

“See these small, tiny holes along the edge of the leaf?”, continued the man, pinching her cheek sharply when he saw she had stopped paying attention. “My princess made them all with a tiny pin – it must have been between her nineteenth and twenty-first years in here – long ago now. She catalogued and marked all of the leaves, thirteen thousand, five-hundred and eighteen. With three hundred and fifty three holes in each if I remember correctly. A lot of holes. You can see that the holes are slightly bigger on the later leaves as the pin was worn down and the tip widened. The imperceptible resistance of a thin leaf membrane can in time blunt a bronze needle. It gives you a certain respect for the patience involved that you could hardly imagine beforehand. Is it not a beautiful thought that a princess of noble blood year after year should punch patterns into dead leaves? Yet her work was never completed, for I was forced to take her needles away from her. She tried to kill herself with them by piercing those same tiny holes in her skin above her arteries, so she could open them up before I had a chance to stop her. She was too eager though and punctured a blood vessel prematurely. I saw the blood and healed her, and in thanks she poured Kargomitic curses upon me, ugly but impotent words.”

Suddenly he got up from her view, but after almost a minute’s silence, when she thought he had gone, his voice spoke from over the top of her head.

“You are strong, but I knew that as soon as I saw you down there amongst the dead at the river. Your power could be significant if only you freed yourself from the curses of your sullied name. I understand your innermost feelings. You can be sure that I am the man to restore you. Now I deign to lift a weight from your body so that you might move. As your liberator I do not wish to admonish you, but I ask you to exercise judgement and carefully consider my offer. Know that my name is Shagul, and I bid you welcome to my tomb!”

Smakprov till översättning?

Några bitar ur romanerna ska översättas till engelska för att finnas till hands inför den stora bokmässan i London under april.

Kan inte ni som läst dem hjälpa mig föreslå stycken som ni dels tycker är särskilt bra och lämpade (om några), dels speglar romanerna på ett rättvisande sätt. Man kan tänka sig att översätta kanske två-tre avsnitt av lite olika karaktär. Jag vet ännu inte om det ska översättas bara från Svavelvinter eller från alla tre böckerna, så ni får gärna föreslå tre avsnitt ur Svavelvinter och ytterligare ett par vardera ur de andra böckerna. Förresten får ni föreslå preis hur ni vill!

Tack på förhand!

Trodax in the mine

Below is a scene from the novel "Svavelvinter" translated into English by Martin Andersson a couple of years ago for his fanzine. I publish it with Martins and my publishers kind permission for the benefit of Fito García and other international guests. Fito recently started a spanish blogg about the RPG "Svavelvinter". This text might have been published before but not recently I think.


Magister Trodax Draconicus, Dragonwarden by decree of the Emperor, was still stuck in the mineshaft when darkness fell over Marjura. He was trembling from the chill. The sparse light that had been seeping down from the ventilation shaft in the dragon’s mountain hall died inexorably away. The Magister had borrowed dark-vision from some poor night rat which surely wandered blindly around outside, but even the night vision of beasts has its limitations in total darkness. During the day, Trodax had quenched his thirst after the previous evening’s inebriation with the metallic-tasting water on the bottom of the shaft, but he was terribly hungry and thought mostly of the housekeeper’s delicious dishes back in his own warm cottage. Besides, he had eventually been forced to pollute the water and therefore did not want to drink of it again. Neither the beast nor the knight had been heard all day long. The wizard now realised that he had to get up, dragon or no dragon, so he would not die a drawn-out and painful death in the mine. Nobody would come looking for him since everybody was scared to death of the beast’s lair, which furthermore was strictly off limits by order of the Bailiff.

However, the walls of the shaft were so smooth and so slippery from dampness that he just scratched his fingertips sore without managing to climb a single ell. He had tried using sorcery to summon beasts to his aid, but they were as afraid as the humans of the dragon. The only one who had responded to his plea was an old half-blind male badger, who, for obscure reasons, wanted to be eaten. It looked down at him sadly from the edge of the shaft, thinking aloud: “You not great-serpent. You soon dead”, and wandered off to meet a wolf further down the valley, which had to serve as an angel of death in the dragon’s absence.

The wizard made a desperate decision to change into animal form himself, though preferably only halfway. He needed strong bear claws if he was to get a grip on the rock wall, but at the same time did not dare to completely assume animal shape, as there is always a chance of losing your mind when the blood of the forest courses through your brain. The animal in him could panic and drown itself. It is, however, much more difficult to stop a transformation into an animal halfway than to allow it to complete itself; so difficult that the art is attempted only by true masters among animists. Trodax was not an especially skilled wizard, but had only a vague theoretical notion of what to do. Desperately he commenced the ritual, then tried to break it off halfway by thinking of the most non-magical phenomena he could imagine; scenes of dumplings and trimming nostril hairs were forcibly driven through his mind. The magic tore and pulled on his limbs in conflicting directions. His skin alternately grew bristles and sucked them into the pores again, but after having oscillated between various forms for a while an equilibrium was reached. Unable to see in the pitch-darkness, he gingerly touched his face and found to his delight a set of thick claws at the tips of his fingers, which at the same time had become shorter. And he was no longer cold. Yet he was still able to utter human speech, albeit with the thickness of an animal tongue. The half-completed transformation was a brilliant feat and he congratulated himself on his own skill and drive.

Now it was time to climb. He pushed off with the strong bear legs and could not help roaring with triumph when he managed to heave himself up by the cracks offered by the walls of the well. At once he fell down again and splashed into the water, but now he knew that the climb was feasible, and more cautiously made his way upward. After half a dozen ells, however, he noticed that the shaft narrowed so that the walls were leaning inward, and there he got stuck, whimpering unhappily, unable to move further. It was now completely dark in the mine, but he knew from earlier in the day that the narrow part was transitory, so he should be able to move on if only he managed to pass the overhang. Slowly and cautiously he freed his right paw, while his three other limbs clung cramp-like to their minimal holds. He groped upward for something to hold on to and to his delight got a grip on a protrusion of rock. There did not seem to be much else to hold on to around it, but the rocky edge offered such a good grip that he would be able to hang freely from it by both paws and heave himself up. Hopefully it would then be possible to move on. He moved his other front-claws to the rock as well and then let go with his hind legs so his body lost touch with the rocky wall and swung freely but steadily. Trodax strained his muscles and with all his animal strength heaved himself upward. Then the rock came away from the wall.

At first he did not realise what was happening, but just fell for a second before crashing down below the surface of the water again. When he surfaced, Trodax heard something gushing down into the water with great force from the hole where the rock had been. He swam toward the sound and was almost knocked unconscious as if by a giant plummet when he came under the flow. It was the thick cranial bone of the bear form that saved him. He groped more carefully in front of him and felt a torrent of something incredibly heavy streaming down through the water. Trodax realised that he had coincidentally laid bare a vein of liquid mercury. He had heard tell that the mountain men, before the dragon had taken over the mine, used to listen to the echo in the bedrock and then drilled through it to draw off the hidden deposits of metallic mercury thus discovered. The job was said to require more musicality than engineering and was therefore suited for the mining people who had come to Marjura from eastern Milacke on Trinsmyra long ago.

Trodax wanted to shed a few tears of despair, but the bear eyes lacked that ability. Imagine drowning in mercury before even finishing the fifth volume of his series on the life of dragons, now that he had gained so much new knowledge during the past day! Then he realised something strange: the surface of the water was rising and slowly bearing him with it up through the shaft as the mercury streamed down. The ascent was slow, and in his exhaustion he tried to put his feet down, since the bear paws were not particularly suited for treading water. His hind legs found springy support against the mercury. The wizard sank to his knees in the metal but was then able to keep his balance by paddling with his paws in the water, which was pushed upward by the heavier mercury. In this manner Trodax Draconicus was borne upward through the shaft. A few ells below the rocky rim the movement ceased, probably because the vein of mercury was drained, but from here it was an easy climb up to the mining tunnel.

He cautiously lumbered through the dragon’s mountain hall toward the entrance of the mine, ready to be attacked at any time by the lurking beast. But nothing happened, and soon he stood facing the night wind from the valley running down toward Pik Pustula. Master Trodax did not, however, allow himself the peace of mind to enjoy his recovered freedom. The dragon was airborne! He had to warn the soldiers and have them light the beacon on the mountain! In his half-finished animal shape he hastily scampered down the slopes without noticing the twigs lashing his furry body. There was fire aplenty in the valley, but when he came to the camp the barracks were deserted. The Magister discovered to his horror that it was his own cottage that was on fire. He dashed up, and there in front of the roaring flames sat an elderly soldier, quietly watching the conflagration. While running Trodax had reassumed his human shape; he was now shivering with cold from his swim in the icy waters of the mine, but the fire was so hot that he was unable to move closer than a dragon’s length.
“We must light the beacon at once”, he tried half-heartedly, suspecting what the answer would be.
“They already know. It flew toward Arhem hours ago”, the soldier informed him, blowing his nose in his hand and proffering his bottle of strong drink. Trodax eyed the bottle with disgust but decided for the second time within a day to get drunk.
“The boy came in just as it started”, the man continued, nodding toward the burning house. “Nothing much to do.”
“Was it the dragon snorting fire?” the wizard whispered.
“No, the cook probably left the stove door open and a spark set fire to oil that someone had spilt on the floor.”

They gazed in silence into the fire which spellbound their eyes as fire-beings have always done. A sense of peace came over them, the calm that appears when everything is already too late.
“I saved your books, Master Trodax”, whispered Mok-mok the goatherd boy, who had been hiding among the bushes. The wizard gave a start. It was the first time that the child had spoken since his parents were eaten by the dragon. Mok-mok was sitting on a pack of bound parchments. The sight of them made Trodax cry with emotion. He walked up and kissed the boy on the forehead so hard that his lips left a round mark in the goat dung.
“Master, your ears…?”
Trodax Draconicus felt and discovered that his ears were still round, small and hairy like those of a bear. He did not know it then, but the wizard would have to live with those ears for the rest of his life.

Traxorien

Peter Larsson översätter som bäst Svavelvinterspelets snabbregler till engelska och ställde frågan om jag föredrar att skriva landets namn Trakorien eller Trakoria på engelska. Jag genmälde att man även kan tänka sig Tracoria och Trachoria exempelvis som Trachorian empire och säkert fler alternativ ändå. Frågan kvarstår dock och nu frågar jag efter era åsikter - gärna underbyggda med argument. Man kan ju tänka sig att "k" låter exotiskt för en engelskspråkig men det är inget jag kan avgöra. Ursprunget är hur som helst "att andas fritt". I vår värld har jag hämtat namnet från luftstrupen, lat. trachea, vilket inte står med någon stavning alls i SAOL men med "k" i SAOB online.

Synpunkter efterlyses alltså.

Synopsis för tredje boken

Nu har jag skrivit ihop en tvåsidigt synopsis för bok nummer tre, dvs den med arbetsnamnet Bladverk som kommer efter Slaktare små vilken ni ännu inte läst, den som jag nu ska börja skriva.

Arbetet har varit roligt men så förvånansvärt påfrestande att jag faktiskt haft sömnsvårigheter under de senaste dagarna. Idéer finns det gott om, men tricket är att sammanfoga dem till någon slags sammanhang och följd. Mitt nya kladdprogram Scrivener lyckades hålla ordning på personer och tänkta kapitel, men ändå har jag omgivits av högar med halvkladdade papper, bland annat tolv sidor med sammanfattningar om varje huvudpersons egen berättelse. Sedan ska dessa separata trådar sammanvävas till en helhet, teman tas tillvara, gamla planteringar vattnas och fås att blomma etc. Det är lite som att bolla med ett dussintal bollar vilka ibland delar sig i luften, blir bubblor som flyger iväg, käkar upp varandra eller krockar och studsar åt varsitt håll. Hur som helst känns det skönt att ha något att titta på även om mycket säkert kommer att ändras.

Den akuta anledningen till att jag snabbt var tvungen att skriva synopsis är försöken att få böckerna förlagda i Tyskland. Jag har redan sammanfattat handlingen i Svavelvinter och Slaktare små, men chanserna för utgivning ökar om förlagen ser att det faktiskt finns tankar om fortsättningen. Nästa steg är översättning och glassifiering.

Det är inte så mycket jag kan berätta för er om bokens handlingen, men den kan sammanfattas med rubriken som mina gamla rollspelare brukade sätta på sina spelkrönikor: "Evil Erik's marionetter snubblar vidare".

Slutklämmen är i alla fall att samla alla viktiga personer i staden Isakra för avfärd mot Marjura inför seriens fjärde och sista del. Nu börjar jag skriva synopsis till fyran men det känns lättare eftersom det mest blir fritt fabulerande.

Winter von Schwefel

Nu ska ni få en uppgift:

Fyrtio sidor från Svavelvinter ska väljas ut för provöversättning till tyska i Coltsos regi. Tanken är förstås att något tyskt förlag ska fascineras så till den milda grad att de genast vill ge ut romanen på tyska.

Men vilka fyrtio sidor ska väljas enligt er mening? Nu vet jag inte om det måste vara fyrtio sidor i sträck eller om man kan plocka två-tre olika bitar som sammantaget blir fyrtio sidor. Jag misstänker att ett stycke gäller, men tolka som ni vill.

Förslag?