After finishing my M. A...

After finishing my M. A. in comparative literature (or "litteraturvitenskap" as we call it here in Norway) and having written on my own for years, I decided to apply for a writing academy.

Since my fellow students were far less practiced, I was easily able to sufficiently impress my professors (most of whom are esteemed writers) for them to arrange for me receive several stipends, so that I shall not have to starve, and for a year the keys to an apartment owned by the national writer's guild in the middle of Oslo.

For the last eleven weeks I have isolated myself there, having groceries delivered to my door by godtlevert.no every morning, while, under a very strict schedule, trying to complete a debut which I can only hope will glimmer at all in the shadow of such masterful literature as Knausgård's recent, brilliant hexology My Struggle.

Have any other aspiring writers attempted anything similar, viz. isolating themselves for a long period of time to write?

>My Struggle.
Wasn't that Hitler's?

There is another user holing himself up to write a book in a shed or something. I think he is also Norwegian, so maybe you can both rub cocks with eachother and compare notes.

you sound too proud to be a good writer - whats your shit about

He was, indeed, Norwegian. Camping out by a lake in his dad's cabin or some such.

Do people still fall for this "I'm a writer from Norway who gets free money to write in a empty house for a year" meme?

Yes, the great Norwegian writer Knausgård named his Proust-like, six volume, literary biography the same as Hitler's infamous book. I would call it an ironic choice, but I think doesn't do the complex poetry of it justice.

What?

I'm not proud. I simply have no personality whereas you are probably used to normal, warm humans. Like Joyce Carol Oates I compare myself to a glass of water: For a moment I might take on a persona to solve a problem -- such as the worried, poor student when I need the plumbing in my bathroom fixed -- but I'm only really myself when I'm writing, taking on the characteristics necessary for me to complete whatever art I'm doing atm.

What my "shit" is about? Harold Bloom says that each great writer finds a fault in the previous great writer and tries to correct it. My work, and my life, is in great part meant to be a "correction" of Knausgård. In my opinion a writer should not mix his personal life and art. For this reason I have gone into the opposite extreme, trying to destroy my very own identity so that I can write the most purest, impersonal art. Like Tarkovsky I admire what rises above petty individualism and strikes at the eternal.

Good taste dude, Dexter's Lab was the shit.

hope this is bait

For a moment you had me puzzled. "What could the gentleman have been referring to?" I thought to myself with a glass of cognac held mid-air, glistening ice cubes floating in it like survivors of the Titanic waiting to get rescued. But then some distant memory from my childhood struck me and I realized you were making a joke around the observation that the greatest movie director of all time, only second to Lars von Trier, the wonderful Russian Andrei Tarkovsky has a name very similar to the one of brilliant inventor of cartoons Genndy Tartakovsky, who, IIRC, has the interesting distinction of having created the only Star Wars tie-in, "Star Wars: The Clone Wars", which was not deemed non-canon upon release of the nostalgic, but inauthentic Star Wars VII by the bespectacled Israelite Mr. J. J. Abrams. A small "subjective" part of me, that I have despite my best efforts not managed to quell yet, could do naught but expel a chuckle from the orifice lingering beneath my aquiline nose.

It made me think of Phil Elverum. He did the Norway thing too.

Of course it is.

I assure it is not. If I seem strange, as said, it is because -- as Joyce Carol Oates -- I strive to be like a glass of water. Among youth, like yourselves, I desire to impart as much value upon literary masterpieces such as the works of Thomas Pynchon as cartoons and Hollywood movies, or as I have several times heard them, quite profoundly imo, called on /tv/: "flicks".

I'll bite for a moment, then. Excuse me for doubting the veracity of your floral descriptions of yourself. Expressing such degrees of self-awareness in such a purple manner will often make one sound inauthentic. Twice you've compared yourself to a glass of water, but your every other post contradicts the simile. To boast anonymously to strangers about "muh Veeky Forums lifestyle" doesn't seem to me to be the activity of one actively trying to dissolve one's personality in order to form one's self in art. You may say that this is another persona you adopt, but I call bullshit on it. Keats couldn't completely lose the self for art, so you definitely cannot.

This is, at best, mid-level bait. If, god forbid, there's some reality to this shitposting, I expect you are an insufferable cunt and norway can keep you.

>This development is reflected in how viewpoint in literature has developed. Starting from the aforementioned impersonal third person view, the subjective third person viewpoint was pioneered among such writers as Jane Austen, and people began to write first persons accounts; even unreliable ones

Changed my mind. Low-level bait. This mindless summary of the development of "viewpoint" in narrative is backwards. Fuck off, kid. You are actively making Veeky Forums a worse place.

well if you're good enough to defamiliarize carpets

You're the cabin guy. You're the retard with his six-part memoir and his mommy. And many more alter egos i can only presume.
Is this the real metamodern literature -- creating a narrative within narratives anonymously in the internet, posing to a faceless crowd facelessly, rewriting the clichés of the struggles of a young writer obsessed with this norwegian literary "giant", Knausgård, while trying to better him and self in the pursuit of something greater than life. Is this the kunstlerroman of our times?

I have to apologize for my poor defense yesterday of what you refer to as "purple prose", which I in the end chose to delete. My isolation and attempts at losing all semblance of personal identity comes at a great cost in terms of loneliness and often I will find myself sitting on my computer, even slightly past my ordained bed time, having discussions and conversations with people on various forums and instant messaging clients on an array of subjects when I should in fact be sleeping in order to better facilitate writing at the points of my schedule dedicated to reaching for the eternal. My response yesterday was not satisfactory, I admit.

Now that I have placed this morning's first cigarette between my lips, a glass of orange juice with ice cubes wet from condensation taking its slow path towards attaining room temperature on my wooden IKEA desk as my fingers run swiftly across the explosion of small buttons we call a computer keyboard -- and which is where they find themselves most at home, I'm far better equipped to explain myself.

I do not write the "purple prose" that is sometimes a vital flaw of literature written solely for the purpose of entertainment. If my prose sometimes seems too florid it is because I'm trying to escape the subjectivity and individualism of modern literature. Whereas even a third person writer will be subjective, for example choosing to focus on details pertaining to the interests of the character they are currently following, I am trying, even if I were to write in first person, to be completely objective; by which I mean that I hope to be completely impersonal and objective as to what I choose to spend a lot of time describing. I might explain an important plot point in a single sentence, but spend a whole paragraph describing the way a clothesline is pulled back and forth by the wind.

I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what you are talking about? Many people reference the same thing. There is some other Norwegian writer with similar ambitions? I have feared this for a long time. I believe each writer to be a natural expression of the development of their culture at what stage it finds itself in. To become a great writer is simply a race to be the first to most cohesively express what every person with a great lot of soul is able to feel. I must simply race on, I suppose.

It would be more interesting if "they" wouldn't all sound exactly the same.

Kek

At this point I don't know if you're some kind of schizophrenic or something or just a normal autist who takes pleasure in posting these elaborate nonsensical stories over and over again.

Most assuredly I'm neither a "schizophrenic" or an "autist". I can't claim any authority on questions of psychiatry, but if I had some mental illness, I'm sure that my family or at least some of the authors that support me (Johan Harstad, Tomas Espedal) would quit encouraging my literary ventures and attempt to seize medical help for me.

I've unpacked today's delivery from godtlevert.no and I've began eating an unwashed carrot as I proceed with my fourth draft of the Twilight Interception movement, wherein my protagonist Eliza Kaiser ventures into the Twilight Interception on her enchanted bicycle to find her boyfriend who is suffering from cancer and has disappeared. For some reason I prefer to eat my carrots with the some earth still on them. I spend very much time in my own head, going over my writing and considering the theoretical-literary implications of my creative choices, and it somehow feels grounding to eat something so natural; I imagine myself like the cave men who would go out on great, spontaneous journeys driven by a feeling they scarcely understood, hunger, until they came upon a patch of carrots and hesitatingly took a first bite. I've heard (in Knausgård's "Om hosten") that the great writer is unable to write unless he is chewing Juicy Fruity. Perhaps unwashed carrots shall become a similar addiction for me.

This has all been an elaborate and poorly conceived advertisement for this food delivery company targeted at aspiring reclusive writers. Wouldn't surprise me if the site was also phishing based.

See, and the OP and the similarities of the threads.

>Like Joyce Carol Oates
I stopped with the bait here

At least this guy puts effort into his shitposts, most of you faggots don't even do that.

Gå og legg deg, Audun Mortensen...

Actual "cabin guy" here, and I most certainly am not OP. I did not stay on to study for an MA, nor have I attended or applied for any sort of writing academy. I also doubt very much whether OP is indeed who he claims to be, though if he is indeed writing a debut novel I suppose it would be the correct thing for me to wish him luck and encourage his efforts. Today I visited the former editor at Gyldendal who I met at a barbecue recently and left him some books (including "Leaving the Atocha Station" by Ben Lerner, which I myself recently completed). I ate dinner with him and his wife, and he let me take home some Ibsen, a short story collection by Chekhov and a book about Johann Herder, who I don't know much about. Anna has arrived home from visiting her relatives but we did not meet today as I have been writing since morning, drinking several cups of coffee, pacing back and forth, picking up several books and reading passages at random, scratching my face, doubting my value as a human being, pressing my palm against my forehead, and writing 5,000 words. Thank you again to those who provided some feedback about the passage I posted, it was and is much appreciated.

I must say this is truly peculiar. I'm a 35 years old Norwegian and recently divorced from my wife whom I still dearly miss. In the end, she divorced me, unwilling to take care of me as a neurological condition which I suffer from drastically worsened these last few years. The only grace, which in its own way is a tragedy, was that in this darkest period of my life my aunt, who I never knew very well as she and my mother stopped talking after a very ugly affair regarding money when they were both in their early 20s, died and I inherited her terraced house ("rekkehus"). With my disease making my work as an insurance clerk more and more difficult for me and having been given "a room of one's own", to put it in the words of Virginia Woolf, I have sold the house in which I lived with my ex-wife, which it somehow doesn't feel right to live in anymore, and moved into my deceased aunt's terraced house. I spend my days writing a novel about my marriage now, not quite sure myself what I'm looking for in this story that can only have one dreadful ending, while paying bills, food and other such necessities with the money from the old house. Somehow it feels right that the money from the sale of the house shall pay for the writing of the book of the marriage that transpired within it. In a way it almost suggests that the marriage in itself was the house, but which I have now sold and am transforming into art. You can, in any case, imagine my surprise, when browsing at Veeky Forums as I sometimes do to try to stay in touch with more youthful literary cultures, I find two other Norwegian writers in a similar situation.