When I was six I decided that I was going to become a writer. I would be one of those persons whose name was on the great books I borrowed from the library in Kärra. The books I read under my bed covers long after bedtime. Picture books and comic books later became books with chapters. Books for young adults turned into Stephen King and Franz Kafka. Surrealism, magic realism and horror. I loved the big stories. I loved the feeling of them, their weight in my hands when I held them. The weight of the characters inside me, how I missed them when the book was finished.

So now that I work with storytelling in everything I do isn’t surprising. I can’t explain how a washing machine works to a five year old, but I can tell a story about how my guy friends at primary school once locked a hamster in a dryer. The hamster survived and its hair became fluffy. I know it has nothing to do with how a washing machine works but I can’t help it. The stories are there. Connected to words and images.

Nowadays, I always have a notepad and a pen with me. Or I write down words or sentences in my phone. It’s everywhere. But usually right in front of me. In my neighborhood. I could talk for hours about the details, people and things that have happened on the way home, just outside the apartment or in the yard. But I’ve chosen a few favorites so that I won’t tire you.

My favorite is Abbas, who owns the local shop. A civil engineer from Afghanistan who’s working his ass off when he’s not taking care of his two young children. Behind the counter with feta cheese, cashew nuts and candy is a worn black laptop, where he’s writing a medical dictionary in Swedish, English, German, Parsis and Dari. Sometimes when he happens to move so that the sleeves of his shirt go up, his scars from the torture in his home country become visible. Abbas knows everything about everyone in the neighborhood. If two people are in there at the same time it takes two seconds before he presents them to each other. He always calls me Mister Modiri. He is the only person who calls me that. I think it's nice.

Then we have Leo's hole. Leo is the fat yellow cat in our family. Leo has a hole in the tarmac in front of the house that he usually guards. I've never seen anything go in or out of the hole but when I look out the window in the study Leo sits there and watches. Head bent forward. Body taut as a spring.

Then there’s the time when I accidentally locked a person in a dark laundry room and ran away because I was so scared. The neighbor in the second staircase, who pointed out the loudness of us having sex. Or our neighbor who hasn’t bought new furniture since 1972. Or the neighbor that plays double bass when he‘s angry. The headmaster of the school below that sound-checked a microphone before graduation one morning. How I woke up to him testing the sound of the mike.

- "One two. One two. You shouldn’t think that… Yes it sounds good."