2005
[hissing]
As the years pass and one gets older, one’s thoughts tend to become more preoccupied with time. At least, mine do. It’s unsettling wondering what I could have changed. Could I have lived my life differently? You’re still relatively young, so it probably hasn’t sunk in yet…
Yes, it has. We only get one life so we should live it well.
Yes, I couldn’t have put it better myself. One life, so…
[pause]
Would you like to take a break? Shall I switch off the tape recorder?
No, there’s really no need. Sorry for the hesitation. You’ll edit it as you think best. Make me look good.
Of course. Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Didn’t mean to upset your flow…
[pause]
Time, ah yes, that’s what I was talking about. Live life well, you said, but sometimes we need to break with habit, smash a few eggs along the way, do something unexpected. Take a chance. You know?
Yes.
Listen to your heart. That’s vital. Often you don’t even know what your heart is saying.
The messages are confused, misleading, the road is winding, the way is never straight, and that’s all fine.
Right and wrong depend on one’s perspective.
Sometimes, though not always. In some cases, the line is perfectly clear, but we can talk about that at the end. Oh, can I offer you a refill?
No, I’m fine, thanks. To tell the truth, I’m more of a tea drinker.
Oh dear, you should have said so. I’ll put the kettle on in a minute.
Were you listening to your heart, Elín, when you gave up your job as a teacher and devoted yourself to making a living as a writer instead?
I’ve never thought of writing as ‘making a living’. I write for fun; I revel in the process: it’s a game, a passion, not a job.
[pause]
I’ll tell you something else. When I was a little girl, I lived in the west end of Reykjavík, on the top floor of a block of flats, in a bedroom with a dormer window.
It was almost like in a fairy tale: the princess in her tower in a great castle, though really my parents only owned our little attic flat.
I used to sit there in the evenings – I suppose I’d have been about ten years old – gazing out over Reykjavík, an entirely different prospect from today, of course: no University Cinema, no National Library, just an unclaimed wonderland for a child with a fertile imagination.
That’s where this author, Elín S. Jónsdóttir, had her origins.
I didn’t know it then, but I can see it now, all these years later.
That’s how we come into being as people.
We’re shaped by our environment, by our memories, by the infinite number of decisions we make every day.
I decided, for example, to invite you to take an interview with me, and who knows where that will lead?
Well, it’ll… the interview will end up in the papers, of course. I still have to decide which one, but I’m confident they’ll be fighting over it. A long interview with the country’s favourite author. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a suitable publication.
When the time comes, yes.
Er, right. Um, how do you mean?
Can you picture her?
I’m sorry, who?
The little princess in her attic window.
She’s gazing out over the wide expanse of the city, playing at make-believe, inventing tales about little princes and princesses who fall in love, though they’re not always destined to be together.
At first, the tales are of that sort – romantic, tragic – then gradually they become a little darker: stories about moral frailty, the danger inherent in human beings, stories about crime, in other words.
Can you picture her there? In the fullness of time, she moves out of her castle, goes to school, meets her people.
You may not get to choose your family, but at least you can choose your friends.
Then she goes to university, intending to read law because her uncle was a lawyer and everyone looked up to him; he lived in a beautiful house with a big garden.
She wanted to be like her uncle. But that wasn’t to be.
Sometimes we have dreams that remain forever unfulfilled – that’s life, after all.
The important thing is to have those dreams. To put them to the test.
[pause]
Did you go to teaching college at that point?
Not straight away. I taught at a school in the countryside first; took a little break from the rat race. I don’t know what you’d call it today. Perhaps you would describe it as a way of grounding myself.
I like that: grounding yourself.
Yes. That was my best year.
Where was this?
Up in the West Fjords. In ísafjordur. Have you ever been there?
No, I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.
No, that’s the thing, one doesn’t always remember.
Maybe you went there when you were very young.
Anyway, take it from me, it has a spectacularly beautiful setting, like being poised between heaven and earth.
You should visit it sometime, experience the place for yourself.
I haven’t been there for what feels like forever.
You said you were teaching there?
Yes, at the school. No one would remember me these days; it was many years ago. I turned up out of the blue, did my bit, experienced the town, the mountains, the sea, got a sense of the local people’s energy, then I just… well…
[pause]
I disappeared again… That’s important too sometimes – the ability to make a fresh start.
To do a disappearing act and turn up somewhere else.
In my case, I simply went back to Reykjavík, found myself a new direction in life and trained to become a teacher.
At the time, I thought that was life. But then, you know, life is so many things.
Not just one path, one strand, but a series of coincidences, of feelings.
And then, as it happens, I started to write.
Out of nowhere, really; first in secret, not even telling my friends.
I threw that first manuscript away, tore it to pieces, flung it in the bin, then started again.
Told the same story, but from a different point of view, and it dawned on me that everyone has their secret, something that can never be told.
Once I’d understood that, I found it easy to write those ten books.
[pause]
You know, sometimes I think life is just one big crime novel.
[hissing]