ESSAY. Everything starts with a phone call to the farm in Seglingsberg, summer 1994. I am seven years old and have broken my leg, have to jump on crutches to Televerket’s bakelite phone. When it thunders, lightning strikes from the microphone. It thunders surprisingly often.
– It’s from the church, says mother. The priest says you got the wrong name when you were baptized. Do you want to be called Selåker or do you want your father’s name?
She hands over the phone. God’s messenger explains that I don’t get to decide it myself but that my mother refuses to listen.
– So, how do you want it?
No matter what I do, someone will be disappointed. I feel sorry for dad because he always backs down. But it is mother who has her eyes fixed on me. Selåker is her name.
– My name can be Selåker, I say because I think it is a bigger betrayal to change my mother’s surname than to passively fail to choose my father’s.
Mom pats me on the cheek. I made the right decision.
As I jump back to the TV couch where my guinea pig defecates in front of the grainy VHS tapes of the night’s World Cup matches, I have no idea that the punishment for my actions will not be meted out until 29 years later, in a series of events that keep the family for the next year I form hostages while I figure out yet another plague or cholera-like life choice, imposed on me by a part as dominant in my life as my mother:
The HR department.
***
The primal trauma in the character building that is me, at least in this story, is that no one knows who I am. Therefore, maybe I should establish it straight away: I am a detective story writer. My name is Johannes Selåker, but judging by the comments in various audiobook groups on Facebook, I am better known as Slavåker, Sädåker and Selånger. Hanif Bali call me Säråker though, that’s fine with that. Because it’s seemingly impossible to get my last name to stick, which is the bane of trying to become a best-selling author.
I am also a journalist. Or where. That is why I am writing this article.
There is an imminent threat in this saga. The hero (me) must save the world (my family’s finances) after being tracked down by evil forces (my employer). An attempt is being planned (to prevent me from writing more books) and I must stop it.
Because it is.
I have had to choose between fulfilling my contract with Bokförlaget Forum or breaking the contract (expensive if someone like me burned the advance!) in order to continue working as a journalist.
Is there anything the media houses hate more than journalists with side jobs?
***
Many believe that it was the love for the colored weekly press that made me leave Expressen for Aller Media and Svensk Damtidning. I can now deny this.
The truth is that I secretly sign a book contract and resign to avoid raising the issue of side jobs.
And it is a shocking experience to start working at Svensk Damtidning.
When the book is released, my lovely boss even organizes an extra release party at the editorial office! The CEO is stopping by! An HR clone – the natural enemies of all freelance journalists – announces that he has bought the book!
Imagine that you can have such a good time!
It lasts a whole year. Shortly after New Year 2020/2021, Pascal and I will sign for Bokförlaget Forum, where we will publish a joint series, the first book of which is called “In memory of a murderer”. Not long after, the question of my writing was raised.
– This goes against the policy, you cannot write any books, I hear from the employer.
My girlfriend is pregnant and I’m not too keen on losing my job.
– What policy? I ask.
– It was just changed, it has not been communicated yet.
Johannes Selåker (on the left) has together with Pascal Engman (on the right) written the book series “Skymningsland”.
Photo: Gabriel Liljevall / Bokförlaget Forum
After a bit of thinking, I finally get the okay to continue publishing books. “In memory of a murderer” is released, the series is sold to ten countries and a production company buys the film rights. I’m having a baby and going on parental leave. Because I love my freedom, I also love my employer. When I (tagged!) return to work, I am called to a meeting where the employer announces that the agreement we made no longer applies. I can’t write books.
– How are you going to manage everything, they ask, now that you have to write film scripts as well?
I explain that everything I write is my signature on a piece of paper and it’s already done. I’ll probably be fine with it. You have already approved the second.
– In any case, you can pause all side jobs for that long, is the answer I get.
– But what do I do with the next book, which comes in just over a month?
– As I said, you can pause it.
It’s a pretty tough seat. Should I stop the countries that are planning to release in the coming months? What do I do with the five books that remain in the agreement with Forum? Those who just a few minutes ago had the employer’s blessing.
The discussion drags on, towards the summer I will take leave to think about my future. I have an equation to solve, there are a lot of uncertain variables and I barely passed math b. I have a mortgage that costs more than my manager’s salary and I have a two year old who wants food, or at least sandwiches. Sure, I also have a girl with a high income but she only likes percentage distribution of the household coffers when she earns less than me. That’s right, the other week I leased a car without asking my accountant if I can afford it.
Johannes Selåker’s debut novel under his own name, “Save us from evil”, was published in August last year.
While I’m making trouble in my college block, I’m launching my fourth book, it’s called “Save us from evil” and it’s my solo debut. That it took so long is due to the misstep during the telephone conversation with the priest in 1994. The publisher has seen the book blogs, between the lines in the launch meetings I understand that they realized how impossible my surname is to establish. When an author logo is to be produced, thirty emails are required to the designer to ensure that Selåker is legible. I realize why Forum released two books in my series with Pascal before they even considered letting me debut. They are panicking.
I have that with me.
When I get a hired PR guy who puts me on TV sofas, I understand how serious the situation is. This isn’t a book release, it’s a rescue. I already have a flop in the bag. The book must be successful if I am to make a living as an author.
On the release day, I am therefore pressured and grumpy, cause a fight with my girlfriend just as I am going to appear on a link in my hometown’s local radio station, P4 Västmanland. I slam the door shut and tear off the airpods. The music stops and the presenter speaks.
“Then we have with us Johannes Selånger who…”
I’m about to hang up but through the door I hear my son calling.
– Mowing sandwich, mowing sandwich.
I realize that every book sold is a loaf of bread, maybe two, and harden up. The phone starts vibrating on the table. SMS rolls in. More people must have heard the wrong saying, Pascal and co must be in a great mood now, I think. But when I click on the fair, I am greeted by something else. Screenshots from a newsletter that Bokförlaget Forum sent that morning. They give my book a big boost there, which makes me happy. Then I read the title, where they attribute the book to another author.
Pascal Engman.
There is a great picture of him next to my cover.
It’s hard not to remember my mother’s reproachful look then, the one who pressured me, as a seven-year-old, to choose a name so lousy that my own publisher can’t even remember it.
***
I do my last day of work two days before the Book Fair. I have agreed to quit. When I leave Aller Media’s editorial office (read office) for the last time, I stand on Humlegårdsgatan and just stare at the labor heroes pouring out of Östermalmshallen after the lunch break while I’m allowed to wander around without a clear direction.
I’m not like them now, I think. It’s finally happening, the moment I’ve been imagining since I was 21.
I am free.
I thought it would be life’s first spring day, a single whirlwind in my chest, but unfortunately I feel nothing.
I sent Leif GW Persson my book last summer, he promised to read and maybe recommend it in Nyhetsmorgon
Or, that’s not entirely true, because I’m panicking. Even my agent hasn’t been told that I’m quitting because I’m afraid she’ll say it’s a bad idea, what if she asks how I’m going to support my family.
The phone rings, it’s Pascal, we’re going to record our podcast and I’m late. He is strangely excited when I answer.
– I talked to GW, he gasps.
– Yes, did he say something about me?
I sent Leif GW Persson my book this summer, he promised to read and perhaps recommend it in Nyhetsmorgon. He can be the savior. He can be 300 loaves of bread.
– That’s why I called.
I see charts, I see Jens Liljestrand’s bright red scallions.
– Has he read the book? I ask. Will he mention it on TV?
– I don’t know, but he called you Selänger throughout the conversation.
By Johannes Selåker
Johannes Selåker is a journalist and author.
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