This post was originally published in Norwegian on May 26, 2022, after my novel, Livskraft – en nøkkel til frihet, was launched in Norwegian. Soon, it will be available in English as Alchemy of the Hidden Spring.

Six years ago, in 2016, I traveled to Bali with the intention of writing. A friend had mentioned that she knew an author who wrote a book every month. I naively thought I could do the same. Despite attending a writing course the previous fall, where the teacher mentioned he took eight years to complete his first book, it didn’t quite sink in.

On my first evening in Ubud, I went to a small restaurant by myself. Only two guests were there: a young man and me. He had thick, dark hair and occasionally glanced over his glasses in my direction. We started chatting, and he told me his name was Elham and that he was from England.

“Isn’t that a woman’s name?” I asked, aware that we have women in Norway with the same name.

“It can be used for both genders,” he replied.

The next day, I began writing. With no plan or clear idea of what the story would be, I sat down and waited for inspiration. I had been hoping for years that the ‘big idea’ would simply land in my head and that a finished book would manifest on the page. That never happened. In the end, I just decided to start. I chose to write intuitively.

I sat down and waited for the story to come. Suddenly, I found myself in a vast desert, where a young boy appeared. Oddly enough, his name was also Elham—the same as the young man I had just met. In my story, this Elham was younger, but the resemblance was striking. As the story unfolded, the boy encountered a tragedy in the very first chapter.

I quickly realized I couldn’t write from home. I needed air and freedom, so I moved my writing sessions to the Yoga Barn, working from its café after my yoga class. This became my “office” during my weeks in Bali, allowing me to explore many cafés as my writing progressed. Strange stories took shape—so strange, in fact, that half of the first draft was discarded a year later.

Gradually, the writing became easier. Elham grew older and met a female teacher who guided him on using his sexual force to heal his wounds. Finally, the story began to make sense. (You can read an excerpt from the novel about this meeting here)

And no, I didn’t finish the book in Bali. If I had known how long it would actually take, I might not have started at all. But now, I’m finished, and the dream has become reality.

We all have an inner child with dreams, and now the adult in me can say to that young girl:

“I’ve done what I can to make your dream come true.”

When I think of the 15-year-old girl I wrote about in Sister for Sale, I know she would have been proud.

It’s time to celebrate.

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