Today I started writing again. A colleague invited me to a seemingly innocent event. Yes, I am gonna call it innocent. The reason is simple, I never expected what it would do to me or how it would make me feel. Sitting on a cold concrete floor, a leash in a tight grip in my left hand, a black and white dog lying with his nose pressed tight to my knee and my right arm and hand resting on a low white stool full of coarse sand. My hand was gripping my favourite pen and it went up and down the lines of the notebook I bought for thirteen dollars when visiting Alcatraz in May earlier this year. I was writing again. I was writing again!
I do write on a daily basis at work. I write emails where I explain the condition for northern lights and why they are so difficult to predict. I write and explain why the seed vault is closed to the public. I write that dogsledding is too much fun to miss out on. I also write on a daily basis to friends. About the housing situation up here, about new podcasts not to miss out on, trying to set a date and time to go swimming at the gym or writing home to my family.
But writing for no one, maybe not even myself, just writing. That, I have not done in many, many years.
It was a workshop in creative writing "When ice is personal: Writing in a northern landscape". We were shown different photographs from around Svalbard and were given 2 minutes on writing to each photo. When some of the writers shared their writing I realised my style was completely different. I got lost in the light in the pictures, what the photos made me think of and my writing resulted in an inner monologue. My writing was nowhere near as fancy as some of the rest, but I was happy. I had forgotten how happy writing always makes me.