Current Issue: Summer 2024 with Featured Author Kajsa Ohman

Macrame: You embody so many things for so many people. You are an accomplished author, a veteran musician and a folk singer. You are a free-spirited icon, a certified life coach and a role model for many. You exemplify how to live the life full of “joie de vivre.” How does writing fit into your life? How did your writing journey begin and what does it mean to you now?

Kajsa Ohman: I tried writing short stories when I was in my twenties, but I didn’t feel like submitting to any of the disciplines to which I supposed a writer must submit. I could see I wasn’t that good—not like O’Henry (meaning I couldn’t think up tricky endings). Besides, my life was in tumult, as I joined a band, got married, had a baby, got divorced, lost the child, married again and had two more sons. All that took a few years, and by then I was a committed traveling entertainer.

Macrame: Where are the roots of your stories and poems? What or where is the birthplace of the characters and themes you write about?

Kajsa Ohman: I grew up in a literate household of the 40’s, so my books were the original versions of Wind in the Willows, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Winnie-the-Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, that sort of fare. They’d be the root, in the sense that when I write (or read) I still want the feeling that I had then. I think this is why much modern literature doesn’t grab me; the focus has become “Our world is dreadfully fucked-up, what can we do about it?” Not that there isn’t plenty of need for that kind of book, but it’s not likely to carry me away to that mystical place where fictional characters lead their fictional lives before my very eyes and even inside my very heart.

Macrame: Some authors write themselves into their work, for others writing is a form of escape, a chance to experience life as a different person. What are your thoughts on your characters’ capacity to represent you?

Kajsa Ohman: All my characters are pieces of me. So, when I write a character like the hideously selfish earl in my first novel, I’m pretty shocked to discover, “Oh yeah, I know all about how that feels, poor man.” I get to explore parts of myself that might even scare me—like, I’m tall, fearless, a great horseman, profoundly gifted, with no patience for bullshit. Wow, that’s me? Yes it is, because I’ve walked out onto a stage with a thousand people stamping their feet for Jerry Garcia, and that’s who I had to be. In short, I’m much more than meets the eye—and so are you.

Macrame: Some people write because they dream to have their work published, yet there are those who are happy to write with little regard for whether their words will ever find a boarder audience. To what camp do you belong? What are your views on the merits of publishing?

Kajsa Ohman: I hunger and thirst to publish. Why? Because I want someone to read what I write. Otherwise I’m just hollering down a rain barrel. It was the same with music. I love sitting alone, working out a new song—but sooner or later, I want to play it for another human ear. The audience, whether reader or listener, is what makes something a möbius continuum instead of a dead end.

Macrame: Who are you as a reader? How did becoming a writer influence, if at all, what and how you read?

Kajsa Ohman: I’m a constant reader now, but for years I wasn’t. I’ve always loved Henry James, though now I only like his last 3 impossible books. I’m presently reading impossible Proust, and I can’t tell you why, except it’s the most extraordinary stuff I’ve ever read. So evidently I like reading impossible stuff. But if the meaning is impossible, at least I want every word to be important, to shine; therefore James and Proust. Also I like the Victorians and post-Victorians in general—dear old Trollope, who can really spin a yarn; swanky Edith Wharton; even Hawthorne. And, hm, I think I’m seeing something else here: I like to be drawn into a world of opulence and elegance, a world which hardly exists anymore because we can’t really afford to have a handful of people living like Proust while the rest of us climb into our handbaskets.

Macrame: In the recent years, you have discovered a passion and a calling for helping others as a certified life coach. How did this come about, and did this transform who you are as a writer?

Kajsa Ohman: Ah, dammit, I’d be such a good life coach! I mean this. But when I started working seriously with a coach myself, I discovered an interesting thing: I only want to write, play music, and paint. I don’t want to run a business, or fret about where I can dig up clients. Most of all, I want to look at my calendar for the day and see absolutely nothing on it. A free day! Yay, another free day! I’m turning 85 next week. I always thought old meant nothing, you just keep doing what you were doing. But the thing is, I’m old. It’s fantastic. I want to lean back and light a cigarette (but only one a day). I want to reign like a queen over my silent, sunlit, eventless landscape of life. And write.

Macrame: It would be amazing to share a cup of tea with you and hear your stories about the fascinating experiences in your life. What can you share with our readers?

Kajsa Ohman: Let’s make it a martini—oh wait, dammit, I can’t drink them anymore. Too old. Readers, if you are reading this publication, you probably already know quite a bit. Really, this is such an age of knowledge, and I mean about priorities, magic, spirit, positivity, the important what-do-I want-to-do-with-my-one-life decisions. It’s quite different from when I graduated high school in the 50’s, when any oddball choice, especially for the arts, made you a weirdo. Actually, I quit high school within 5 months of graduation. The principal told me I couldn’t do anything without a diploma, and I told her I wanted to be a folksinger. Then she told me all folksingers had diplomas, and I told her—suddenly not being able to think of a single folksinger—that, uh, Burl Ives didn’t have a diploma, and she told me that he certainly did. Then she told me you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. I did drink, though. I hitchhiked that winter from San Francisco to Vermont with 2 not-boyfriends, and there, in the snowy ski town of Stowe, I graduated with honors, AND THEN became a folksinger. As you can see from this little bit, if we were sitting drinking whatever, I would likely have more stories than anyone would want to hear. If, however, anyone wants to hear about my life in music, they can look up Kajsa Ohman/Still Ramblin’, and they’ll find about 30 chapters. It’s well worth the trouble. I only stopped writing because I was starting to get to the rather seedy part, where we had become almost closer to petty criminals than musicians. I have, it’s true, had an interesting life. That’s what I wanted.

Macrame: If you were to give any advice to our readers what would it be? It doesn’t have to be just about writing.

Kajsa Ohman: Get better at it.

For instance, leave a page of your ms, one you think is really perfect, up on your computer for a while. Go back later and stare at it. I bet you’ll see a dozen things that could be stronger, that don’t fit, that just don’t sound good, that don’t nail your idea, or whatever. Definitely read aloud. If you like a writer, read that writer aloud. You’ll catch a lot of what makes you like him/her. Also, have a variety of readers in mind. Maybe your English teacher would love what you wrote but your downstairs neighbor wouldn’t get it. See how many different kinds of people you can imagine getting it.

I’d give the same advice about life: Get better at it.

Macrame: What is next in store for you?

Kajsa Ohman: Oooh, I wish I knew. I have some novels that are by this time screaming to be published, and I’d like to think this is actually in store for me. One thing I suspect may be in store, though, is that I’ll be living in my own house, and I’ll have my own writing room. And a garden. Wait, there is something in store! In August there is a guitar flatpicking workshop in, of all fantastic places, the island of Ortygia in Italy, and I am signed up. And learning Italian. I’m not even sure I have to think beyond that blissful event. However, if I could please have the workshop, then the writing room, then the publication of at least one novel, I could go out on a golden cloud.