The power of place: How Iceland shaped my writing destiny
As I lay in bed, the eerie screams outside pierced the darkness, and I reached for my pen. It had been a month since I arrived in this Icelandic village, yet the relentless January gloom and the howling wind, almost alive with its own voice, still unnerved me. I began to sense that Iceland had a story to tell, a story that I was meant to write.
In Sauðárkrókur, a fishing town nestled in the northern fjord of Skagafjörður, nature reigned supreme. The mountains, sea, and valleys dominated the landscape, with no trees to shield against the relentless Arctic winds. I struggled to adapt, often being swept off my feet by the gusts on my way home from Fjölbrautaskóli Norðurlands vestra, a high school with a name as challenging to pronounce as its curriculum. My nights were haunted by dreams of wailing women, and their cries seemed to merge with the wind's howl when I awoke. It was then that I wrote, seeking to understand both myself and this mysterious land.
At 16, I applied for a foreign exchange program, eager to escape the pressure of deciding my future. Since childhood, I'd known I wanted to write, a need as vital as breathing. But societal expectations had convinced me that writing wasn't a serious pursuit. The prospect of committing to a conventional career path terrified me, so when the Rotary club offered a year abroad, I seized the chance. Without any language skills, I was told a host country would be chosen based on my personality. Iceland, a small Nordic island with a population of 250,000, was their choice. I knew nothing about this place, yet I felt a strange connection.
March brought a respite from the harsh winter winds, and the days stretched into breathtaking blue twilights. School remained a challenge, and I felt like an outsider, but writing became my sanctuary. I described the ravens soaring above and the fjord reflecting the majestic mountains, and in doing so, I escaped my loneliness. Each night, I retreated to my room and let the words flow freely.
One morning, in my Icelandic class, I found myself writing a poem in my notebook, inspired by the sight of Mount Tindastóll, its snowy peak glowing pink in the late sunrise. So engrossed was I that I didn't notice my teacher, Geirlaugur, until he cleared his throat.
'What captivates you so that you neglect your work?' he inquired, pointing at the unfinished exercises. He examined my notebook, tilting his head to read. 'Poetry?'
'Fyrirgefðu,' I apologized.
The following day, Geirlaugur called me to his desk. Expecting a scolding, I was surprised when he presented me with an anthology of Icelandic nature poems in English. Inscribed inside was a message: 'To Hannah, From one poet to another, Geirlaugur.'
'Continue, and you will be published one day,' he said with conviction.
His words struck me deeply, and I replied, 'I hope so.'
Geirlaugur shook his head. 'You will. Keep writing. Áfram.'
From that moment, my connection with Iceland deepened. I immersed myself in learning the language and devouring Icelandic literature, discovering that Geirlaugur's poetic spirit was not unique but a reflection of a deep cultural reverence. I read Halldór Laxness's Nobel Prize-winning 'Independent People,' where the protagonist Bjartur creates poetry while working the land. I explored the 'Sagas of the Icelanders,' where poets are revered alongside warriors. As I made friends and felt a sense of belonging in Sauðárkrókur, I realized that Icelanders' respect for writers was profound. A friend proudly shared that Iceland is a nation of authors, with one in ten publishing a book. Nowhere else on Earth matches its per capita book publication rate.
Iceland played a pivotal role in my writing journey. The passion for literature I witnessed during my stay and subsequent visits rekindled my belief in writing as a valid and noble pursuit. Iceland's sentient winds and blushing mountains continue to inspire me. Whenever self-doubt creeps in, Geirlaugur's words echo in my mind: 'Áfram.' Onwards.
