Unwritten, unread

On all the words that don't make it to the page.

I’m on my way to the Roslag archipelago for a photo shoot with my husband. I’m two months from my book deadline, and we have spent a large part of the summer taking photos for it. We drive for two hours to the northeast, roll on the ferry and drive south on the island. Louise who owns the Brännö sheep we are there for waits for us in her small boat at the southern point. Dan climbs down on the bow seat, I in the middle and Louise behind me.

She takes us to the neighbouring island. The one inhabitant rents Louise’s sheep to keep his land open. After a few minutes along a winding path, we find the flock. They have traditionally grazed on islands on the west coast. Dan picks out his camera. Louise has brought a bucket of pelleted goodies that she scatters in my direction to get the sheep closer to me. "Scratch them between their fore legs, they can't reach there on their own", Louise says between the handfuls. The sheep’s warm breaths tickle my hand as they muzzle their way to the goodies. I take in their familiar smell and let it settle around my heart.

We walk back to the boat and move on to the next group of sheep on an island further south. Brackish water in my face, boat kissing the surface. On open water I hold Dan’s hand, hold my breath as the boat lifts above the roaring waves, booming back down. A sea eagle circles above us, scanning for prey. Louise tells us about her life in the archipelago. I look at the sea; I am a little afraid of it, today, on a windy July Monday in full daylight. Louise travels across these waters all days, all year round. I wonder what they’re like on an early January morning.

Another island, another group of sheep. Another sea eagle in the sky. Goodies in the bucket, bell of the leader ewe ringing. Dan's camera clicking, Louise chatting with the sheep. The last island we go to is the one where Louise lives and was born. She knows this sea by heart, after all it raised her. She knows how the winds work; she knows how to get the sheep into the boat in November. "They usually jump right in; they are used to it by now. The boat takes about ten of them". We find the sheep in a grove just outside the boat house. The sunlight trickles through the foliage and casts a gentle sheen on the wool. I see a lamb at the edge of the flock and can’t take my eyes off her fleece – curved locks in black and grey, all ending in perfect pirouettes, breast draped with a white ruffle cravat. I ask Louise if I can buy the fleece after the autumn shearing. I look at the goosebumps on my arms and imagine spinning yarn for a sweater for future boat rides.

Of all the pictures Dan has taken today, only one will make it to the book, underneath a short paragraph with a breed description and general wool characteristics. Before me though, are ten individuals. Their fleeces offer a spectrum of qualities from rough to fine, colours ranging from vanilla through silvers, greys and graphites to black.

I could write the whole book just about this visit, but I won’t. Behind every word in the manuscript are a thousand that will never be written, yet they are the foundation of the ones that will. In those short breed descriptions lie all the stories, all the people I have met through my research and all I have learned along the way. The unwritten words carry this book, adding depth and substance to the ones that end up on the page. For a second my heart aches for the stories that won’t make it to the book. The next I realize the unwritten words are still there – the eagle, the muzzles, the locks shining in the sun, salty waves in my face and the generosity of sheep owners. They spread their wings every time I open the manuscript.

After 200+ hours of writing I’m at my final two chapters. There would have been no writing without the unwriting. And you know what? Every reader of the book will read it through their own stories. They will bring their own unread understanding of my words. Together, my unwritten and their unread will expand into new and brilliant views of the world. If all the visits to kind sheep farmers condense to only a short section on Swedish sheep breeds, I will rest in that: A thousand unread stories in the hearts of the readers for the price of every unwritten in mine.

The book is called Listen to the wool and is written, and unwritten, by me. It will be published in the second half of 2025.