August Strindberg begins his novel "Röda Rummet"/ "The Red Room" with the phrase that it was in the evening, in the beginning of the month of May. I am wondering how many diaries have been started at this time of year. The eighteenth-century scientist, Carl Linneaus wrote a diary that begins in May, about his journey to Lappland, alone on horseback, when he was still in his twenties. How many author-hopefuls pick up a pen and put it to paper in the beginning of May? I don't have any statistics on this. (If anyone does, please let me know.)
Now that we are in the age of computers, I am trying this new medium, blog-writing, for the first time between the time when the flowering bird cherries and lilacs are in bloom; between my mother's birthday on April 25th and my daughter's on May 12th. But I have "writers' block". I was going to write about making jewellery, and I am too keen on everything I see around me in my garden; a garden that I have not made myself. It was already here when we moved in. Look at this flowering plant. I don't even know what it's called.
