Strange writing

I'm punching words onto paper, or rather into my hard drive to be exact, and there is the strangest of sensations haunting me as I read them back to myself.

For me fantasy and SF has become identical to novels written in English. It's not something I even bother thinking about, but this spring I noticed two calls for short stories written in Swedish. Two contests, and I simply couldn't let go of the opportunity to write in my own native language. So I do, and those words read stranger than fiction to me.

Poetry is one thing. I'm used to see my own creations in the language I think and live with, but a developing story? Strange indeed.

But I continue to hammer down those words, and I wait for them to echo in a melody I can recognise even though they're created using a different instrument.