It’s the last day of November and it’s eight months since we came to LA believing we would be here for four.
Tomorrow is the first day of December and my outfit says it’s October.
I dream about showing LA to my family, about being chased through abandoned hospitals and hugging our Gothenburg neighbors greeting us back home as if we were close friends. They said they had missed us.
The creepy girl with the shorts and braces catches up with me at the end of the hallway and when I realize the double doors go both ways and I can't keep them closed I prepare to freak out, but is saved by David who wakes me up.
And we’re in LA. And it’s the last day of November.
And the sun is shining like it’s July in Sweden.

I go for a long walk in the grey and muggy weather.
For the first time in ages the temperature has dropped below 30 celsius degrees, and if I stand completely still it feels almost cool. But when I go for a walk I instantly notice how humid it is and I kinda regret wearing pants today. Skirts are always better. Always. That's why I only own one pair of pants.
After ten minutes I reach the tree with a portal in its branches and to my horror I realise that they've cut three of the branches that used to hang over the pavement- and the portal is gone. Completely gone. My kingdom has been destroyed; It feels like something has been stolen from me.
I walk for an hour, dry my sweaty neck and forehead with a tissue every ten steps or so, and then I arrive at a part of town that feels like London, South France and a little bit of LA all at once.
I go into a vintage store and buy myself a brown crocheted sweater with batwing arms from the 70's or early 80's if I should try to guess. It suits my outfit for the day perfectly and in that moment I don't regret wearing pants anymore.
When I come out onto the street there's an available table outside of the Italian restaurant and
I decide that's where I should have my lunch.
The woman at the table to the right of me is eating Moules-Frites, and instead of a hand bag she has her cell phone and wallet in a wicker basket. She tells the guys next to her that she lives in a tree house in Hollywood hills. I think to myself that I wish I could live in a treehouse of my own. That would be the ultimate dream come true.
To my right is a table with three large Italian men that look like they could be in any maffia movie ever made. They talk loudly about the neighbourhood and politics. They have American accents though so the illusion of being in Europe is slightly bruised.
I eat a huge Salad Niçoise.
Afterwards I go to a coffee place a couple of blocks away. I pass dream homes and stop to take a photo of an especially wonderful house.
When I reach the café it's exactly what I want it to be. Cozy atmosphere, good coffee and outdoor seating. I sit down to write a little about my day, but first I have to pet the cute dog that sits next to me.

Hope you enjoyed this little snippet from my day.
Have a lovely weekend everybody, and talk to you soon!

/Lotta

Something I’ve heard a lot, especially after coming to LA, is the notion that Men can’t write women characters because they don't understand how women think.
This is like the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Let me tell you why.

It’s mostly men who say this in an attempt to explain why there aren’t as many complex female characters in movies as there are male (why they don’t go out of their way to hire more female writers then is a another question).
The men who say this, men working in various departments in the film business, but also men who are nowhere near the film business, seem to think that women are so completely different from men that they can't possible understand ”how women think”.
Do you know what their problem is?
They believe that every single thought that comes from a woman must be driven by the fact that she is a woman. Not that she is a person.

When a man in a film responds to something happening to him he does so as a human being first, but when a woman responds to the very same thing she has to react as a woman only.

Every female character written by a man who believes women are fundamentally different from men, will be portrayed like that.
She will be driven by motherhood, her menstrual cycle, her longing for a family, her clinginess, her need to ”talk things through”.
All things stereotypically female traits that (if even true?) aren’t everything that makes up a woman. Or a person.
This is why there are so few women in the movies because ever time you have a woman in it she must be all about those feminine things, like getting all mushy when a baby pops into view (Like Scarlet Johansen in the last X-men movie), or being home waiting for their men without doing anything else except waiting (and taking care of family) while their men are doing important things (like in every single action/thriller/adventure movie ever made).
Of course that is boring! But that’s not really how Every Woman is, right?

My (very revolutionary idea) is that if men would write women characters the Exact Same Way as they write men we wouldn't have this problem.
Women wouldn't feel like they were misrepresented in the movies, and men would KNOW how to write female characters.
Because we’re really not that different.
There are more differences between individual people than there are between men/women.

I can honestly say that I rarely think about the fact that I am a woman in my every day life and thoughts. If it’s not pointed out to me like when I’m being exposed to sexism (which happens a lot when I come in contact with the world). Society wants me to remember that I am primarily a woman and not a person, but in my head, in my life I am a Human Being first.
The facts that I am a Swede, that I’m white, are huge parts in making me who I am. Just like it’s important that I have lived a very secure life in a wealthy country with free healthcare. It affects me that I was bullied when I was a kid, that I love theatre and acting, that I’m crap at maths, that I enjoy singing and talking to myself, that I have a half sister that I didn’t live with growing up but still see as my ”real” sister, I’m terrified of bees, that I am a bit scared of doing things wrong even if it’s the first time I try something.
That I am a woman in a world who treats women like we’re not worth the same amount of respect as men.

These are some of the million components that make me who I am and what makes me act in certain ways. Things that make me into a person.

Male writers who believe that they ”must know how women think” to be able to write women into their movies should not be allowed to write scripts.
At all.
Because if you see your female characters as caricatures instead of complex persons, then you are worthless in your job as a writer. And you have crappy imagination.

(Also: Women writers have successfully written male characters throughout the history. Is this more proof that there should be more female writers because men are worthless at imagination?)

When I was a child I had my very own kingdom.
It was next to a little stream in the fishing village where my family spent our summers.
On one side of the stream there was a small path leading down to the ocean, and on the other side was my kingdom. Underneath huge ferns I could lie down and not be seen by a single person walking by with towels under their arms, ready to go for a swim.
I remember feeling so safe there. And very very sneaky. I probably giggled a lot. And there were most likely at least a couple of grownups who did see me but was nice enough to let me believe I was completely invisible.
When I told my parents about my Kingdom they asked if I didn't mean I was the queen. In Swedish we have a word for a country lead by a king and one word for a country lead my a queen.
I remember thinking that the queen is not as high in rank as a king so I said No, I'm the best, so therefore I'm the king.
Kind of sad to realize how gender roles form us so early on, but at the same time I really like how I didn't feel limited by my gender. King was at the top. Queen was next in line. The gender of the person being King or Queen didn't matter at all.
So I was the King of my Kingdom of Ferns.

I still search for Kingdoms to rule.

Where we live now there's a tree with a magical portal in its branches.
I noticed it one afternoon on my way home. I walked with my head in the clouds and all of a sudden I was standing right underneath it.
I stopped. And stared.
It felt almost the exact same way as when I found my Kingdom of Ferns. In my mind a place no one has ever seen before.
The branches had formed a circle, a portal to another space and time in its foliage. I snapped this photo and had trouble to move forward. I just wanted to stay there, on the sidewalk, looking straight up into the greenness.
The other day when I was on my way to the grocery store I walked underneath the tree again. I tilted my head back and dreamed I could transport myself through the portal and exist in a magical place bathed in green light for a little while. My Kingdom.
My Kingdom of the Magical Tree Portal.