I went home to Norway early this summer. I’ve been living abroad for more than a decade. It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m a restless person that will always look toward the horizon and be tempted by the lesser traveled path. Despite all of that, I can’t deny that it’s really, really nice to go home now and then as well. This time, I went further north than I’ve ever been before, past the Arctic Circle and then some.
Ask a writer about their relationship to their characters and you might get answers that sound downright concerning. They will talk about a person that only exists on paper as if he or she is made of flesh and blood, and got a fully developed personality. To make things even worse, they might even claim that they take on a life on their own sometimes, as if it’s no longer up to the writer to keep the character alive and
out of in trouble.