I know lots of people blog as an outlet for their creative writing. I’m not one of them. I’m far more interested to share my living in Finland experiences. However this little challenge took my fancy. Who hasn’t dreamed of being someone different, even if just for a few minutes..
The Alter Ego
Research the origins (Latin, Greek, biblical, or otherwise) of your first name and develop an alter ego for yourself based upon those origins. If your name is Alex, for example, whose origin, Alexandros, originates from the Greek root “to defend,” your alter ego could be “The Defender.” Free-write for twenty minutes from the perspective of that alter ego, writing about anything that comes to mind—and see what kind of patterns, ideas, or thoughts emerge.
Happy writing, my friends!
My first name is Heather (Kanerva in Finnish) and my name comes from the flowering plant Erica or Calluna vulgaris. It wasn’t very difficult to put one and one together to get my alter ego. The writing for 20 minutes went quite quickly and easily. Given that this is my first attempt at creative writing since matric (30 years or so), it’s not too shabby. So for all the Heathers out there, this one is for you!
I am Erica the Vulgar, I hail from a long line of strong Viking women. Women who have roamed the globe, conquered and been conquered. My family history is vague, I like to think Viking lord there somewhere, although I would hazard a guess that my less than noble name gives credence to roots that are less than noble.
My daily existence is harsh: no soft furs garnish my tent; instead I sleep on rough canvases collected on my travels. I hunt with spears and rocks. My most trusted companion is a semi tame wolf by the name of Husk. Husk knows my every mood, and our communication is almost telepathic. A nod of my head will send Husk to herd a deer into my waiting spear.
I wonder about my unborn child and their children. Will the woods and forests share their secrets with my off-spring’s off-spring or will they lose the connection with the forest spirits and grow soft and lazy over time.
My child’s father was killed in a nasty and pointless battle with a neighbouring tribe. The cause of the battle has since been forgotten. As we were victorious, despite losing many brave warriors, I have been bequeathed to the new leader of our hunting team. Had we lost my fate would have been less certain. Our wedding ceremony will take place on the third new moon after the last snow of this winter has melted. Swert the Destroyer has good intentions, and will care for my child and I very well. In my mind I know this match is in all our interests, yet one tiny corner of my heart knows that he will never be in the same league as my lost Danroyd the Vulgar.
Once my child is born and our wedding is over I will move into Swert’s village. Our tribe has half a dozen villages spread over the valley of Moldorf and we regularly meet to trade food and furs. The past winter was the harshest since Molo started leading our tribe. We feared that by winters end our numbers would be lessened as the elders and young ones succumbed to the bitter cold. I fear not the cold nor the dark of these long winters, they bring me a small joy, a few hours of peace after the drama of the hunt.
Husk is watching me from the other side of my tent, his bright blue eyes reflecting the flames of my oil lamp. I nod and say his name gently, and that is the sign he was awaiting. He rises, stretches and trots purposefully out of the tent. He will stand guard until I signal him again in the morning.
My unborn child stretches and kicks. My time is soon, my belly has grown to its limit and soon I will call the tribes midwife to sit with me.