Birthday soon

I like cycling around in Oslo, there’s so much leaves on the ground, half of it there andhalf  in the trees. And you know what autumn smells like, it smells like a mixture of rotten apples and smoky winter. I cycle through it all.

I printed out my novel again, and on everyone’s advice I’ll send it to publishers. I feel a bit like D: I have a feeling I already know what they’ll say, and since I do there’s no real point in sending it to them.
And there’s something so strange about holding your own novel in your hands, I mean, feeling the real weight of your own words. They’re always heavier than you thought, but whether it’s because you said something important, or just said too much, who knows

Next Sunday I’ll turn twenty one, which is a big thing to be. I’ll make lots of cake and have some kind of party, and hope it goes away quietly.