Monthly Archives: July 2011

Little one is just off to bed, and I’m finally on the couch relaxing with Victoria. Reinout left for a promo tour earlier today and will be gone for two weeks. It’s the longest we’ve been away from each other, but then again absence makes the heart grow fonder right? Today I’ve been working on my admin, emails and prio list for next week. And yes, not to forget to mention applying for jobs. In case anyone knows of an intersting opportunity in Project/Program/Change Mgmt alternatively Account mgmt/business development let me know. Until then I will keep you posted on how it goes with the job hunting. But recent developments in the US don’t bode well…

Ok here comes in all earnest my first mobile blog post. Srpski film – or A Serbian Film. There has been quite some hype about it in Swedish mainstream media, so I was curious what it was all about.

Despite my admittance to certain dark side interests, slasher movies aren’t one of them. Well I’m not intending to give a full review here; more for the reason that mobile blogging isn’t particularly comfortable for my index finger. But did it live up to its hype? It’s of course entirely subjective. It’s not gory (thank goodness) and there are no torture scence (can’t stand them). Sex yes, violence yes and a hell of a lot of allusions to certain sexual that are dispicable, detestable and above else criminal. Yet we read about it every day without so much batting an eyelid. I don’t believe films or games make us more prone to violence in the end. This is something you either have by birth (genetically or through braintrauma) or from social environment. So I can’t say I got particulary shocked when I watched it.

One thing though, an epiphany I had half way through the movie. The leap to comparing it to the Balkan war is not as far fetched as most people think. The movie could have equally been about Milosovic, Radko Vladic, soldiers, the general population, media and the Western world picking up sound bites of it to more or lesser degree. In fact it could have been any war – with you and me as spectators.

It’s my birthday. According to the calendar I am turning 35. A daunting number? No, not in my world. I wear it proudly as a badge if not on my heart then on my sleeve. I’ve been served breakfast by my lovely children and my wonderful husband. I love them so much. To the point I now know what really matters. Not money, or self promoted updates on Facebook, nor my own trials and tribulations. Only them. I linger on those words like they are exquisite caramels melting in a morning dry mouth.

A few weeks ago – a friend, who like me – also had her birthday (nearing fourty). I called her late one evening as she was preparing her administration whilst her two daughters had a sleep-over party turning her house inadvertently into a zoo. Like so many evenings, she spent them in solitude…well not exactly an entirely correct observation as she kept herself as her only company, And I think she was fond of that. I guess that is something we all learn to cherish when perils are awaiting us.

Her husband called and sms’d about a deal he had just made. She was happy for him. At least I think so, as she had complained how little she saw of him and his job was more of a friend and lover than she was. But they were married, and the epithet of wife could not so easily be taken away from her. Or at least that was how she rationalised her life.

As we were talking she was receiving frantic text messages from her partner. Eventually she excused herself that she had to take care of a situation. A situation I had little experience dealing with myself. But where knowledge repressed the little understanding I had for the matter, my empathy took over. I told her to call me back when she had time. She never did.

I waited the whole day, knowing it was her birthday (she’s a few years older than myself). Towards the evening, when the clouds parted for a setting sun, I took up the courage and dialled her number. It took several rings, and I was just about to hang up when I heard her familiar voice on the other end.

“How was your birthday?” I asked. “Did everything work out yesterday?”
“No” was her simple reply. She seemed tired, but not from the exhaustion one would feel after a long day in the name of celebration. It was something else. Apathy?
“What happened?” I queried, trying not push and probe too much with the result she would clam up (she’d done it many times before).
“John was drunk. He kept calling me, talking strangely. And then there were the texts…” She trailed off, and for a moment there was a pregnant pause as I was waiting for her to come back on where she ended. But she didn’t. She started to cry. And the worst thing when someone cries  down the telephone is that the tears never reach the receiver, They hit us, only by their echo and from our perceptiveness, and so we do know they exist. And yet we cannot not qualm them. Because we cannot hold the person most needing our love.
“Patricia, I am here for you.” I said eventually. Not knowing really what to say, but it seemed like something I should be saying given the circumstances.
She snuffled, and I could hear her drying her tears. Maybe on some piece of garment she was wearing at the time.
“It was so embarrassing…” she started. I went to his office to check on him… to get him home. I just wanted him home. I had been thinking about him all evening, devoted to his stacks of admin. And yet when I came…” Again a pause, but she picked it up again quickly.
“As I neared the building he came out and just as he saw me he slipped. He sprained his ankle. So I tried to get him home before the rain and before the children would wonder why we were gone for so long. But he kept telling me – rambling more like it – that he slipped because of me.” She paused before resuming “I apologised, but I don’t think he took notice, I tried to help him, offered to call a doctor or at least a taxi to get him home but he refused. He looked so angry, and well… I had to steel my nerves not to let it impact me.”

“I got him out of the building, the alarm on and we walked slowly towards home. We only got as far as to a lamp post and he wanted to keep his foot there. I can imagine. It must have felt cold to the touch. He told me to leave him if I didn’t have the patience to wait, but I was too concerned for his wellbeing. So I pushed him those final yards. It only made him more angry as he took my wrist and bended my arm. I screamed. A neighbour from the area opened his door and within minutes two police cars had rolled up. Eventually things calmed down. I went to my younger daughter’s room who was sleeping with her sister  and slept there for the night.”

“We didn’t speak to eachother all day. He says I am lying. And I should tell “my truth” to him. But what truth? I have started to make up truths just for the sake of it. Yesterday I was a former prostitute that I had failed to mentioned. Tomorrow I will have been lingering in the arms of men whilst he’s been on business…”

“Why do you say these things?” I asked, my hearth thumping. She took some time before she replied.                                                                                             “Because it’s the only way I can hurt myself. Even hurt doesn’t hurt any longer.” Her last line was so sad, and whatever had lodged itself in my heart now travelled up the airways until I felt I could hardly breath.

“Are you ok now?” I eventually asked.
“Yes, yes of course. Really I got to go.”
We said our goodbyes and that was it. I called her a week later but she pretended as our conversation never had taken place. I said it was ok, but I’m here for her. I hope she know this….if she reads it.

Instead it’s my own birthday. One with laughter. As I woke up, before anyone else did, I could hear my little son babbling to himself. It was the sweetest of presents. I feel so happy. So blessed

Some weeks ago I told you that I had written a novel. Well in all honesty it was my first draft, and as any proud first time author sent it far and wide to anyone that wanted to read and give feedback. Well first of all, it’s been great and I can’t thank you enough for the overwhelming positive response (I love the “page-turner” analogy!) as well as of course some points of critique. I have tried to incorporate this where I felt it would do well with some changes. So now, after weeks of editing, the “final” novel – before it lands on some highly critical editor’s desk – is here.

And with this I seek a publisher, or alternatively an agent that can take it on. Knowing that this message will be posted far and wide (please retweet and facebook – I appreciate your help tremendously) – If you know anyone in your network, or is a publisher/agent yourself: please write to waldau.susanne[at]gmail[dot]com

So I will leave you with the book abstract here…

French by day, and Parisian by night, Justine has always held a fascination for the dark side. When she meets a stranger who brings her home one bleak midwinter evening, she doesn’t know chance has little to do with it. The stranger leaves Justine with an obscure note with only an address written on it — one that leads her to one of the seedier neighbourhoods of Paris. And as her marriage disintegrates, she finds herself once again drawn to her dark side. But her quest for sexual intimacy is haunted by the ghosts of a series of unsolved crimes….

Weeks later, she meets the stranger again, who tells her of the discovery of a box containing jewellery that once belonged to the victims of the Paris Reaper — a killer who plagued the city over a decade earlier when seven prostitutes were found murdered — all by decapitation. Intrigued by the mysterious case, which has captured her imagination since childhood, she sets out to investigate it and the ties to an obscure organisation going by the name of the Hellfire Club. Like a moth to a flame, Justine is drawn deeper and deeper into the mystery until a sleeping killer is awoken. A killer known only to a few as The Man Without Face. This time there will be no return, no escape, as the Reaper comes to mete out justice.