From the 8-Hour Triangle to the Life Balance Diamond

Where did my eight hours of free time go?

I still remember how frustrated the woman who attended one of my talks on time sounded when she said it.

She didn’t work more than eight hours a day. She didn’t sleep more than eight hours.
And yet, she couldn’t find anything close to eight hours of free time, time just for herself.

She was referring to the famous slogan coined by social reformer Robert Owen in the 1800s:

“Eight hours’ labour, eight hours’ recreation, eight hours’ rest.”

That simple triangle of balance became the dream of the modern worker. However, it was built on an assumption that doesn’t fit how we live today.

Back then, the model focused on workers (mainly men) and assumed that someone else (mainly women) took care of everything related to home and family. The time spent caring for children, cooking, cleaning, or supporting loved ones wasn’t counted. It simply happened somewhere else, in someone else’s 24-hour day.

Two hundred years later, there is rarely “someone else”. Most of us fit work, rest, care, and everything in between into the same 24 hours.

That is why the Time Use Initiative (TUI) has introduced a more realistic symbol: the Life Balance Diamond.

Unlike the old triangle, the diamond has four sides, reflecting the different parts of life. For many of us, the side representing leisure has become small, or at times, nearly invisible. This leaves many feeling drained or uninspired, the dangerous lack of enthusiasm I talk about in my Courageous Time Management method.

So, if you ever wonder where your eight hours of leisure went, consider this: perhaps you never really had them, at least not since becoming an adult with a family.

When you see your day as a diamond rather than a triangle, you may find more clarity about what truly fills what I refer to as your "glass of time".

For help on how to handle all parts of life within the time you have, you can read or listen to my book Beyond Efficiency or check out the resources on www.annikarosendahl.com.

You can also read more about the Time Use Initiative on this link.

Writing novels in multiple languages

How challenging is it for you to think in two different languages? Each language has its own nuances and cultural contexts. How do you navigate between the two?

To hear my answer to Dave’s question, tune in to episode 458 of the podcast Living the Next Chapter. I share my thoughts on this from 15:10-21:30.

Direct link to the podcast session:

https://pod.link/1607392975/episode/7d35acf28ff2b47132a258f6025c5d50

You can also read a summary of my answer here.

You have an ability that many other authors lack: you can write in more than one language. To you, this is normal. To everyone else, they think, I can't write in Swedish. There's no way I can do that. So, let's discuss this. How challenging is it for you to think in two different languages? Each language has its own nuances and cultural contexts. How do you navigate between the two?

I started out writing only in Swedish. Back then, I had a Scottish colleague who told me: 

“Annika, you should write in English. The Swedish market is too small.”

I laughed and told him I was glad he thought my English was good enough—but the language we used at work was nothing like the language used in writing fiction. So, I tucked the thought away.

Years later, I began to wonder if I could make it happen after all. I even asked a few people about translating my book, but it turned out to be far too expensive for me at the time. Writing was still more of a passion than a livelihood.

That’s when I thought: How hard can it be?

Well… it turned out to be quite hard. Translating Jenny, Jenny into To Love, Guilt and Motorcycles was one of the toughest writing challenges I’ve taken on. I wanted it to read naturally in English, not like a translation. So I worked with beta readers and found a wonderful editor who helped me ensure native speakers wouldn’t stumble over the language.

But of course, it wasn’t only about the words

My editor once flagged a scene where I described a summer night that never really got dark. She thought it was a mistake. I explained that in Sweden, in June, the sun hardly sets at all.

That moment made me realise how much cultural context was woven into my writing.

To help bridge those gaps, I added a short introduction to Love, Guilt and Motorcycles, pointing out some of the quirks that Swedish readers take for granted.

So yes—it’s never just about translation. It’s about carrying the culture, the atmosphere, and the unspoken things too.

 

Apocalypse Now, Again and Always?

Last summer, I visited an exhibition at the Göteborg Museum of Art: Apokalyps – Från yttersta domen till klimathotet (Apocalypse: From the Last Judgement to Climate Threat).

What struck me most wasn't a single artwork or theme, but the realisation that the idea of a looming catastrophe is nothing new. We have always believed the end is near. 

In Christianity—especially during the Reformation—people believed that disasters were punishment for immoral behaviour.

The 1800s brought fear of what industrialisation was doing to society. 

In the 1900s, world wars and nuclear threats took over. 

Today, climate change, AI, and totalitarian ideologies scare us.

The themes change, but fear remains.

One reason we keep returning to these doomsday scenarios is, paradoxically, comfort. 

The exhibition quotes research that explains our fascination with catastrophe as a form of psychological safety. 

As Brianna Wiest puts it: we worry about improbable events because they're "safe problems."

If we worry about an asteroid hitting Earth, we don’t have to deal with the conflict at work. If we focus on AI taking over the world, we can ignore the hard conversations with the neighbour.

While I easily shrug at global fears others carry, I always seem to have something to worry about. Will our cat fully heal from his injury? Will my son find work in a sector that just saw several bankruptcies? Will my business attract new clients?

The answer, of course, is that I don’t know.

That's where trust comes in. Instead of doubt, we need faith in life and in our ability to handle what comes. (I think it sounds even better in Swedish: vi behöver tillit istället för tvivel.) 

One artwork that I looked at for a long time was Hannaleena Heiska’s Rachael #3, inspired by the first Blade Runner film. 

I only recently saw the film, which was made in 1982 and set in the then-distant future of 2019. It’s gritty and dark, and while it had flying cars, it didn’t predict smartphones.

No matter how much we think about the future and try to predict it, there’s always something we can’t imagine yet.

We don't know what's coming, but if we can drop the fear, we might see that whatever comes can be even better than what we can currently imagine. 

Att le mitt i sorgen

I min bok Tack Mamma – en bok för dig som saknar, skrev jag om hur tacksamhet och en större förståelse för liv och död kan hjälpa en på vägen genom sorg.

Trots mitt eget sorgearbete varken kan eller vill jag tänka på hur det vore att sörja sitt eget barns död.

Ewa-Britt berättade i en intervju hur hon hanterade att hennes son blev ihjälsparkad. 

(Extra fruktansvärt! Det var en liknande händelse som inspirerade mig till en viktig del i min bok Jenny, Jenny).

Ewa-Britt tyckte att det hjälpte att låta hennes sons organ doneras. Då kändes det mindre meningslöst. 

Det andra hon gjorde var att låta sig själv sörja hans död samtidigt som hon fortsatte vara tacksam för hans liv.

”Jag tänker på Marcus en gång i halvtimmen. Men jag blir inte ledsen – jag känner ett leende inom mig. Jag kan bli ledsen över det som hände men jag känner mig aldrig ledsen i stunden då jag tänker på Marcus.”

 

Om du går igenom en stor sorg hoppas jag du hittar ditt sätt att gå vidare.

Jag har lagt upp kapitel från min bok Tack Mamma här på min blog. Kanske kan de hjälpa dig att le trots sorgen.

Här hittar du första inlägget.   

You will be judged. Dare to write anyway.

 Can you encourage those who want to be authors but hold back out of fear of judgment?

To hear my answer to Dave’s question, tune in to episode 458 of the podcast Living the Next Chapter. I talk about this from 23:10-32:00.

Direct link to the podcast session:

https://pod.link/1607392975/episode/7d35acf28ff2b47132a258f6025c5d50

You can also read a summary of my answer further below.

So, can you take what you just said and put it in the context of an author—not a figure skater—but an author who feels like all of the things your main character feels in your books? Can you put that in context for an author and encourage them?

I think I can. For a while, I visited schools to talk about writing and being an author. Often, it was teachers of literature or Swedish who invited me, and sometimes it felt like they were quietly confessing something. They would tell me they had a half-finished novel somewhere, but they never completed it.

When I asked why, the answer was often the same. It wasn’t good enough. That was their fear. They had judged their own story so harshly, so early, that they never even let it grow into something finished.

That’s such a pity. If this sounds familiar, I hope you won’t stop yourself. Just write. Write it down. You don’t need permission. Yes, publishing a book can be a challenge, although with platforms like Amazon, it’s more possible than ever. But the writing itself, that act of getting the story out of you, that’s yours. Don’t let fear or perfectionism stand in the way of it.

If writing makes you happy, if there’s a story in you that wants to come out, let it. Don’t censor it. Most likely, your first draft will be messy. That’s completely fine. It’s not supposed to be perfect. It’s just the beginning, a starting point you can build on. Some people describe it as getting the story out of your system. After that, you can shape it, refine it.

There is a delicate moment when a story goes from being just yours to being shared with someone else. When I give something I’ve written to my husband, who is usually my first beta reader, it almost feels like handing him a newborn and saying, Please be kind to my baby.

If you’re just starting out as a writer, choose carefully who you share your early work with. Make sure it’s someone who will handle your story with care. Critique is important, but it should come at the right time. Don’t ask for detailed feedback before you’re ready for it.

 And yes, there’s a parallel here with figure skating too. It’s such a beautiful, expressive sport, but it comes with fear of judgment, both from others and from within. Still, when skaters let go of that fear and simply do what they love, it becomes something extraordinary.

Exactly. For skaters, moving like that on ice is natural. To the rest of us, it looks like magic.

Writing can be the same. Your voice, your perspective, your story might seem ordinary to you, but to someone else, it could be exactly what they need to hear. That thing you’ve been living with quietly, shaping in your thoughts, may strike a deep chord in someone else.

So don’t keep it hidden. Let it out. Share it. You don’t have to be fearless, but don’t let fear have the final word. There’s something beautiful in creating something and offering it to the world. Let’s not try to make something perfect or universally liked because that's never going to happen anyway.

To read more about my books, go to my author page on Amazon or to annikarosendahl.se.

How to deal with moving pieces when writing novels

How do you deal with all the moving pieces when you write a novel?

Dave asked me this, on his podcast. To hear my answer, tune in to episode 458 of  Living the Next Chapter. I share my thoughts on this from 21:30-23:05

Direct link to the podcast session:

https://pod.link/1607392975/episode/7d35acf28ff2b47132a258f6025c5d50

You can also read a summary of my answer here.

I think every author does it differently. I heard about Margaret Atwood. She created a large Excel spreadsheet spanning multiple years. What is happening in the characters’ lives, what is happening in the world, and then she puts it out on a timeline.

I don’t start with a structure, I just get the story out of my head. But then after a while, I write a timeline in Excel. Sometimes I am specific about what year it is, and where the events take place – like in Love, Guilt, and Motorcycles. Other times I am more vague. Like in my story about Rabbitface. I am not saying where it takes place or what year it is. It's somewhere in Oregon, and it’s contemporary. But even if I didn’t write the exact months and places, I still needed to know for myself. How old are they now? Where are they?

So I did start using an Excel sheet to keep track of, like you said, the moving pieces. A story doesn’t have to have a lot of moving pieces of course. There are great novels where the story plays out in a single day.

So it all depends on what you write. It is important to acknowledge that some stories have many moving pieces instead of assuming they should be simple. Instead, let it be as complex as it is and deal with that complication one way or another.

About the Rabbitface series 

What would happen if you took the themes of Dirty Dancing, Wonder,
and Antonia's Line all set against the backdrop of competitive figure skating?

You get Rabbitface: a contemporary romantic drama in 4 parts. 

This is a story about love that defies expectations, the ripple effects of family legacies, and the courage to embrace who you truly are—inside and out.

Heartfelt, multi-layered, and deeply moving, it’s a tale that will touch your heart and stay with you.

The books are available on Amazon.

Why Oregon? The way to the Rabbitface series

You’re a Swedish author who penned a tale set in Oregon. Why Oregon?

To hear my answer to Dave’s question, tune in to episode 458 of the podcast Living the Next Chapter. I describe why Rabbitface takes place in Oregon from 23:10-32:00

Direct link to the podcast session:

https://pod.link/1607392975/episode/7d35acf28ff2b47132a258f6025c5d50

You can also read a summary of my answer here

It all circles back to Tonya Harding. The protagonist in my book, Rabbitface, is a figure skater, much like Harding. Her background is far from affluent, making her skating journey quite unexpected. And since Tonya Harding hailed from Oregon, it made sense to me. Additionally, I researched Oregon's climate and found it similar to Sweden’s, making it easier for me to describe.

I have a friend from Oregon. She sends me photos and answers my questions, which serve as my research input. The story itself couldn’t unfold in Sweden because the stark contrasts between the haves and have-nots are more pronounced in the US. People living in trailer parks versus those with plenty—these differences are not as significant in Sweden. Another critical aspect is the lack of access to healthcare without insurance, which greatly impacts one character's life—a situation uncommon in Sweden.

So, I needed a setting where these elements would make sense. Tonya Harding provided a starting point: Where did she come from? Oregon. Consequently, I researched Oregon and consulted my friend. I also watched movies set in Oregon for inspiration. That way, I discovered its beautiful hot springs—now a key element in one of the books.

Oregon seems like a place where a Swede could feel at home, even though everything is bigger in Oregon, like the trees and lakes.

So I chose Oregon since it’s beautiful and fitting for the narrative.

While those interested in figure skating will find Rabbitface – a love story on ice - particularly engaging, it has wider appeal. The first book follows characters in high school. One of my friends in her 60s enjoyed it despite initially thinking it wasn’t for her age group. There’s no upper age limit; anyone high school age or older may relate to it.

The series delves into life’s shadows and light, exploring how we find ourselves and each other amid adversities. Love stories are central but intertwined with deeper questions about life, death, love, hate, and friendship—themes that naturally weave into my narratives.

Figure skating fascinates me despite not being a skater myself; I danced when I was younger and always admired the beauty and athleticism of skaters. They often receive less attention than other athletes, like footballers, but deserve recognition for their grace and skill.

The idea for Rabbitface emerged while waiting at a hospital during one of my pregnancies. A leaflet about the handicap of being ugly caught my eye—it seemed absurd at first until I realised how societal beauty standards could impact lives profoundly.

In Rabbitface, the protagonist has an injury from childhood affecting her appearance. On the ice, her socioeconomic status or perceived ugliness doesn’t matter—she finds solace and strength there. Her journey reflects defiance against unfair judgments and evolving beyond hiding or fighting against societal norms.

Ultimately, the worst judgment often comes from within ourselves—a theme deeply explored throughout the series as characters seek self-acceptance amidst external prejudices.

About the Rabbitface series 

What would happen if you took the themes of Dirty Dancing, Wonder,
and Antonia's Line all set against the backdrop of competitive figure skating?

You get Rabbitface: a contemporary romantic drama in 4 parts. 

This is a story about love that defies expectations, the ripple effects of family legacies, and the courage to embrace who you truly are—inside and out.

Heartfelt, multi-layered, and deeply moving, it’s a tale that will touch your heart and stay with you.

The books are available on Amazon.