The Chosen

AFTERWORD AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To begin with there was only the title. The very first time I visited my publisher, Piratförlaget, I said that the title of my fifth book would be The Chosen [Davidsstjärnor]. Looking back that seems completely incomprehensible. I never even thought that I would write five books. Or six, actually – I’ve started writing children’s books too.

I am sitting at my desk trying to remember what it felt like to write The Chosen. It isn’t particularly difficult, because I have never enjoyed writing something so much in my whole life. I have been fascinated by the history of the Jewish people and the creation of the state of Israel for such a long time; how could I resist the temptation to write a book with that title at some point? When I had finished, I wept; the sense of loss was so overwhelming. You can write a book only once. Everything that follows – the re-reading, the revision – is something else. Something that, for me, doesn’t have much to do with writing. So when The Chosen was finished, I felt bereft. There was only one cure: to start a new project as soon as possible, because it is when I am writing that I feel best of all.

I thought we could have a little chat about that, dear reader.

About the importance of feeling good. And about where I was in my life when I wrote this book.

A few years ago I wrote a piece that was published when Unwanted [Askungar] came out in paperback in Sweden. I said that we must get better at following our heart, at devoting ourselves to things that give, rather than take, energy. I differentiated between what we do because it is right and strategic (or ‘good for our career’), and what we do because we want to. And writing was – and is – exactly that: something that I want to spend time on because it is so much fun. Because it makes my life better on so many levels.

Yet for a long time I insisted on marginalising my writing, keeping it as a leisure activity. In spite of the fact that I was producing a book a year, and had been published in a dozen countries, I carried on working full time, often in locations in a constant state of re-organisation, with almost comically poor leadership which suppressed both creativity and productivity. I used to say that I would never be able to resign. This was based on the erroneous assumption that if I stopped working, I would also lose contact with the politics of international security, and to be honest I can’t imagine my life without that contact. As time went by, it became clear that I had been wrong. I could integrate what was going on in the world with my writing, as long as I had the courage to expand my authorship to include non-fiction texts and perhaps journalism. And if I missed having a job, I could always apply for a new one.

So since January 2012 I have been a full-time author, and at the moment there is very little from my old life that I miss. The transition between old and new was actually supposed to happen at the end of 2010 / beginning of 2011, but then I got another allegedly good job. In Vienna. As a counter-terrorism expert. That was something I couldn’t say no to, and so 2011 became yet another year when I worked and wrote at the same time.

I had so much fun that year!

And I was utterly exhausted.

Another dysfunctional workplace, where I was sapped of strength and energy. My airways hated the dry air in Vienna; I had a permanent cold. On top of that I did too much travelling, slept too little, wrote at night, worked during the day, had visitors from Sweden at the weekends. Eventually I had had enough. I am too smart to carry on like that. I had to stop doing two jobs at once, and I had to catch my breath. So that’s what I did. The autumn of 2011 was a long wait for my contract in Vienna to come to an end so that I could return home to Stockholm, where my new life would begin.

And then everything went wrong. To cut a long story short, less than a week after I moved back to Sweden, I ended up in hospital, more ill and more terrified than I have ever been in my life. Then I got better. The long version of the story doesn’t belong here, but I remember the feeling so well. The feeling that I was rotting from the inside. I lost every scrap of energy in just a few days. My body felt like a small town where the lights were going out in one area after another. I was drowning. Try taking a deep breath with water in both lungs. It’s impossible.

Becoming aware of your own mortality is a good way of starting to examine both your lifestyle and life choices. When I looked back at the way I had lived over the past few years, it wasn’t difficult to see that I had spent far too much time on things that I didn’t really value, but hadn’t had the courage to say no to. There was a cruel irony in the fact that when I had finally dared to make the leap, I was doomed to fall at the final hurdle. I couldn’t reconcile myself to that. Not under any circumstances.

And I didn’t have to, as it turned out. Apparently I had brought a souvenir back from Vienna: streptococcus. Physically I recovered quickly; mentally much more slowly. I had seen my own fragility, and to a certain extent I had become a different person, someone who was suddenly in a hurry. If I was ever struck down by a serious illness again, or affected by something else that threatened my existence, I was determined not to stand there regretting a whole lot of important stuff.

In many ways, 2012 was one of the best years I have ever known. That was the year when I sat in the historic American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem beneath a clear sky studded with stars, and wrote The Chosen. Something I had dreamt of for so long: to spend time in Israel and write a book. It was magical, the most perfect writing experience ever.

It’s hardly surprising that I grieved when it was over, or that I love being a writer on a full-time basis. Because this is what I have come to realise: if you sort out the big things in life, the small things will follow.

A year has passed, The Chosen is about to be published, and I am sitting here trying to come up with a sensible afterword. I don’t really have much more to say.

I have to add the obligatory disclaimer:

This story is entirely fictional.

I have even taken the liberty of inventing a completely new Jewish community in Stockholm, because I didn’t want to involve any of those that already exist.

The legend of the Paper Boy is also entirely my own invention.

I would really love to return to Jerusalem to write more books.

Because there will be more books. I feel calmer now, I no longer race through life like a sprinter. My head is already full of ideas for lots of new books.

At Piratförlaget they think I’m crazy when I keep on turning up with yet another new manuscript, but that’s fine. Dear Pirates, you have a very special place in my heart! What would have become of me if we hadn’t found each other? Thank you for continuing to publish my books, and thank you for helping me to become a better writer. Special thanks to my publisher Sofia and my editor Anna. I always put that sentence in my acknowledgements, and it is equally true each time.

I also have agents, at the Salomonsson Agency. You are wonderful and you are crazy! I only have to poke my nose around the door of your office for twenty seconds, and I have enough energy to run a marathon in under two hours! I am so proud to be represented by you. Thank you for the enormous amount of effort you put into promoting my books overseas, and an extra big thank you to my agents Jessica and Leyla.

In my personal life it is impossible to mention everyone by name; there are far too many people to thank. First of all: my wonderful, reliable friends. How do you thank so many people at once? Without you there would have been no good books, particularly in 2012. It is you who give me strength and energy, and it is mainly with you that I share my everyday life. I try to keep you as close as I can, because whatever twists and turns my life may take, you are always there.

Thank you.

And then there are my siblings, who continue to rejoice in my successes, and who are always happy to help me celebrate them. Thank you! We have found a whole new meeting place through my writing, which is terrific; I cannot tell you how much I value it.

Finally I must express my heartfelt thanks to my mother and father; they too are always there. It is wonderful to have such devoted and loyal parents. Who come to the Gothenburg Book Fair every year to listen to me talking about my latest book. Who fly to Vienna to be with me when I am celebrating the publication of my books in German. And who drive right across Sweden in a blizzard when I call from the hospital in tears.

Thank you.

Kristina

Stockholm, 18 February 2013