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A while back I promised you a proper look behind the curtain. The desk, the mess, the actual making of the thing. I'm finally making good on it, and I want to be honest about why the timing lined up. I've had more time at this desk than I planned, because I've been signed off for a stretch.
The start of July is a heavy week for me. Two years ago, right around now, my dad passed away. I thought the second year would be the gentler one. Instead it turned out to be the year the shock wore off and left the real thing underneath. Grief is strange like that. It waits until you've finally stopped bracing, then quietly sits down beside you.
So this year I let myself stop bracing. A doctor's note, bed rest, and the deeply un-Swedish art of doing very little.
And here's the small mercy in it. When I couldn't do much else, I reached for the gentlest bookish thing I know.
The tabs, the printer, and a little whiteboard
I finally bought a printer. (Yes. Applause. It only took me this long.) So from bed I printed out the first few finished chapters of Dustling and did the thing I do with every book I love. I tabbed it.
Not editing. Not rewriting. Just tabbing, exactly the way I do it as a reader. Quotes, the lines I'd underline if the book belonged to someone else. Intense moments. Character intro. Character development. World building. Plus a set of little magnetic bookmarks to mark where each chapter begins and ends.
There's something steadying about reading your own draft like a reader instead of a mechanic. No red pen, no fixing. Just sitting with the story and letting it be what it is for a little while.
The other new arrival is a desktop storage unit with a whiteboard built into the front. Quick ideas go up top, a small daily outline underneath. Nothing clever. But on the days when my head would only hold one thought at a time, having somewhere to set that one thought down helped more than I expected.
The corner where all the tabbing happens, plus the new little whiteboard.
The city, and a building I keep coming back to
Here's a piece of the real book. The capital in Dustling didn't come from nowhere. Its bones are borrowed from old Stockholm, the parts of the city that still look like they are holding their breath. Narrow streets, tall proud facades, stone that has watched a lot of history happen and decided to stay quiet about it.
And there is one building that anchors a scene I care about more than almost any other. It's drawn from the Royal Swedish Opera. At the beginning of June I went there with my mum to watch a ballet, one last time before it closes for a long renovation. Sitting in that room, all gold and hush and the weight of a hundred years, I finally understood the scene in a way I never had on the page. Some places you have to stand inside before you can write them.
I won't tell you which scene it becomes. But when you reach it, I think you'll feel the ceiling.
Where Dustling is right now
Now for the part I can hardly believe I get to write. The finished chapters, and I mean the finished ones, not the scenes still lying around in pieces, now sit at nearly 40,000 words. That's almost halfway, about 42% of the way to the 95,000-word finish line. It came in slow, uneven bursts this season. But it came. August 30th is still the deadline I've pinned myself to, and I'm still, stubbornly, going for it.
There's a live progress bar on the book page if you'd like to watch it crawl toward the end alongside me. No pressure. (All right. A gentle, companionable amount.)
If you're new here and want to see where it all begins, the first draft of the prologue is up on the site. Raw, a little messy, and entirely yours to read.
Pendants, and something I'm counting down to
I've also been making pendants. A few more joined the little collection this week. (Yes, I photograph them like a proud parent. No, I will not be apologising.)
And here is the part I'm genuinely giddy about. Around the time the first draft is finished, I want to start running small lotteries and giveaways, these pendants included. A little thank you for being here through the messy middle of it all. There is nothing to do yet. Just know it's coming, and that being on this list is how you'll hear about it first.
Your turn
I read every reply, so tell me. When a week is heavy, what's the small, gentle thing you reach for? A book, a blanket, a walk, a person. I'm collecting these quietly, the way I collect everything.
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