Oh, and by the way: I am genderfluid. I’ve written it in my profile bios since day one, but never really posted about what it means to me. It’s difficult to explain even to myself. Well, here goes: Sometimes I identify as mostly female and sometimes mostly male, but I’m never strictly either or. Maybe I could use the term genderqueer or non-binary, since there’s an overlapping, but the fluidity is also an important component in who I am.

I hope this is no big deal to you, dear readers, as you have been very understanding and supportive about anything not conforming, both to me and each other, ever since I came here. I hope you continue to treat me the same. No one has ever questioned my ambiguous personality or the more or less manipulated pictures of myself and some of you have also been discussing gender in a very open-minded way. That makes me dare write about this. Everything I’ve written about myself is true, well, except for the fiction parts of course. And even in the fiction there are truths about who I am. To write fiction is to write truths.

On this site you get the more female side of me, who is a creative and mostly positive girl, who may be the only one in Sweden who wears a black dress when celebrating light and joy on Midsummers Eve, who marches in Pride, who is kinky with her partners, who paints her nails, flicks the finger in the face of the world and who sometimes likes to roll herself into a blanket, disconnect from the world and read the entire weekend. Despite her black clothes she likes the lightness of summer. She is the one with visions, who writes privately, she is the author.

She co-exists with another one. A more male entity that is more logic and organized, more caring for others, used to taking care of business, getting things done. He has no sense in clothing and just cheers when he can remove her damned bra. He is more pragmatic, but also lately more neurotic and depressed, as he shoulders all responsibilities, and he can’t stop doing things once he’s at it. He’s not as relaxed anymore and is often in a strange, brooding mood. He moves in the shadows and emerges once in a while. Cranky when he has to face people and pretend. For some reason he prefers the heavy isolation of winter. He is the one writing at work, writing to communicate, he is the copywriter.

This division might sound like a “we” but there’s really just “I”. And I’ve always been this way. As a pre-school child I was looking and behaving androgynous. When my mom was shopping clothes for me, and the shop staff came to help, they always had to ask me if I was a boy or a girl. I always hesitated. I don’t know what I would have said if my mother had not been there. Not that I wanted to change gender, not to either. I just felt like identifying as a girl was as valid to me as identifying as a boy. No matter how my body looked. I’ve always felt in between. I wanted clothes from both sides of the store.

Like I wrote in the previous post about my pansexuality, I didn’t understand myself for a long time. Why would I do this, I wondered. What’s the point of dressing in what society decided is “wrong” clothes? Well, it’s like going the whole life with gloves two sizes to big and then suddenly getting a pair that fits perfectly. It’s not sexual or fetish, it just feels right. Beautiful clothes makes me feel at least a little bit beautiful myself. But I can’t fully explain it even today. There’s still some stigma surrounding this, mostly because of peoples prejudices, confusing identity and fetish, and I don’t want to be misunderstood; I’m neither butch nor sissy. I am not one gender dressing like another, I am dressing as who I am.

And of course it’s not all about the clothes. That’s just a tangible, external manifestation of what happens inside. It’s how I think, feel and interpret the world around me that is fluid. The me inside switches between modes that identifies with different gender. Sometimes I have to change clothes in the middle of the day cause I feel differently than I did that morning. I’m told there’s changes in body language too, but I do not see that myself. Somehow I write and interact differently too.

At the moment I am more content – and confident – with me being female. The male me is the burned out, fatigued, side. He stepped forward and had to shoulder a lot of responsibility over the last couple of years and all my energy went into keeping him alive. Which meant there was no room for my female side, she was pushed back and got desperate, struggling for freedom, wanted to live. Now I’m trying to let him rest and to let her loose on the world. Wish me luck!

It took forever to write this post. I’ve been coming back to it in my notebook on and off for a while. At first I felt obliged to explain myself to you so you wouldn’t feel deceived about who I am. Then I wrote a new version to sort it out to myself. Cause I am still struggling to understand and that makes it hard to explain. It’s the eternal question: Who am I? Oh well, I am a writer, no matter the gender, and hope you’ll continue to read my ramblings, thoughts, reports from life and of course my fiction.


Naked reality

I have been living in a naked reality – stripped of the glamour, the interpretations and extrapolations of my mind. Exhaustion and fatigue prevented me from connecting the dots and coloring the fields of the world. No wonder life was lacking meaning. I see that now. I remember now, what I was, who I’ll be. The frozen becoming fluid. I’m beginning to let myself protrude out of the shell. Entering the world again, slowly, growing tendrils, tilting reality, expanding chaos, edging ideaspace till I’m all wet with possibility.



When you are one step away
Only one step away
And you hesitate
Because you know
There is only one step left


Right or left hand?

I’m not right handed, nor left handed. And I am not ambidextrous. I use my right hand for some things and the left for others. With my right I write with a pen, with my left I write on my phone. Right for brushing teeth, left for putting lipstick on. Right for flicking the finger and shaking an angry fist, left for caressing someone I care about – or myself.

They are not interchangeable, wrong hand feels uncomfortable, but they can cooperate sometimes. Both for my guitar, which I love to play. Both for driving, which I hate to do. Neither can paint or draw but sometimes does it anyway. I got silver rings I made myself on the right; it’s strict in its shiny adornment. The left is naked and free; untamed and impulsive. Two sides of myself, living in symbiosis.

Why choose one above the other?



I can get so lost in my thoughts that when I wash my face in the shower I sometimes end up water-boarding myself.



Relationships – Either they end or you die.



I’ll become a nun in a writing convent/cloister. Is there such a thing? If not, who’d join me in starting one? Bring your writing tools, toothbrush and dildos – but no relationships whatsoever.

“Get up early, sister Ellinor, you’ve got coffee duty! Grind the beans vigorously so that the writers may be divinely inspired!”

Then we’ll dress in black garments and write a few hours, or at least until breakfast. Or lunch. And there’ll be long walks at the lake or nearby forest to think and when tired in the afternoon take a nap or hang out with the other sisters. Maybe some wine in the evening. Not to friendly though, no intrigues or hanky-panky!

Then back to writing for us night-owls. Catch that nocturnal flow of inspiration and then off to bed. What a dream.

Oh, what do nun’s pyjamas look like? Are they black and comfy? I imagine they must be – cause sleeping alone can get very cold.

(I’m keeping emotions at bay here.)


Shorthand diary

She very cranky snappy several days though says all good. Teeth dog snap snap. Her unemployed days filled with overflowing laundry. From work I gym rage. Shower have to wear last resort panties. Also groceries carry trembling tired. Feel bad fucked all time. Want be sushi roll in blanket. Travel away away. Wish alone. Walk home like black cloud. Old lady approach on bike downhill puts her legs out in air and smiles. I tears my eyes.


The Immortality Twist

“Oh no”, was my first reaction. “Why me?”, my second. Eventually everyone on Earth will know I’m immortal. They’ll hate me. They’ll envy me for having endless relapses into depression, an eternity to wonder what to eat for dinner and a never ending line of job interviews. Oh, almost forgot: An infinite number of orgasms.

TVS Monthly Nanofiction Bonanza May 2017
The challenge: Write a story, exactly 55 words.
You have achieved immortality not just as a state of being but as a life process. Tell us about it, either how it happened, what you will do with, or how it’s changed your perspective.


Statement one

In a world of either/or
I’m neither/nor


My muse is a bitch, part 2

I wrote a post earlier this week. A kind of metaphoric text about myself. Only a few sentences and I felt it turned out like a good read worth sharing.

But before I could post it my muse came down with her idea hose and sprayed me with words. I continued to write, 667 words to be exact. What I thought would be a simple, single post, turned out to be the synopsis of a short story set in Azza-Jono.

So I can’t post the original text because it would spoil the story. I wanted to continue writing but it was to late at night already and I had to go to work the next day.

And of course, while at work my muse came down with the hose again. Now it’s going to be a whole novel. Damn. Why didn’t she get here when I was unemployed instead? There is not enough time in my life as it is now!

Well, she is a bitch, but she is my bitch and I love her. Bring it on, darling, I’ll buy a new laptop and try to keep up.



Yesterday I wished I was a ball of yarn, rolled up into myself, like a warm, cozy little self sufficient world.