Verb
at skrive
Meaning
to write
| Infinitive | Nutid | Datid | Førnutid |
| at skrive | skriver | skrev | har skrevet |
Example on how to use the verb – Danish version
Clara sidder ved sit skrivebord og stirrer på den blanke side på skærmen. Hun skriver langsomt nu, hvert ord omhyggeligt valgt, men historien forbliver flygtig. Pludselig glider hendes tanker tilbage til hendes barndom. Da hun var ti, skrev hun sin første fortælling – et finurligt eventyr om en talende kat. Hendes lærer havde læst den højt for klassen, og Clara havde følt en gnist af glæde, hun aldrig har glemt.
Gennem årene har hun skrevet utallige historier – nogle udgivet, andre gemt væk i støvede skuffer. Sidste sommer færdiggjorde hun en roman, der havde taget tre år at færdiggøre. Men nu, hvor hun står over for et nyt projekt, sniger tvivlen sig ind. Hun klikker med musen, skriver en sætning, men den føles hul.
Så falder hendes blik på en gammel dagbog ved vinduet. Hun åbner den og læser et digt, hun skrev på en regnfuld eftermiddag i Paris. Minderne strømmer tilbage – byens charme, den stille café, den måde, ordene flød ubesværet på dengang. Inspirationen vælter frem.
Clara vender tilbage til sit skrivebord, hendes fingre bevæger sig hurtigere nu. Hun skriver med fornyet passion og blander tidligere minder med nutidens fantasi. Siden fyldes, linje for linje. I dag har hun skrevet de første ord i en historie, der vil føre hende fremad endnu engang.
English version
Clara sits at her desk, staring at the blank page on her screen. She writes slowly now, each word carefully chosen, but the story remains elusive. Suddenly, her mind drifts to her childhood. When she was ten, she wrote her first tale—a whimsical adventure about a talking cat. Her teacher had read it aloud to the class, and Clara had felt a spark of joy she has never forgotten.
Over the years, she has written countless stories—some published, others tucked away in dusty drawers. Last summer, she finished a novel that had taken three years to complete. Yet, now, faced with a new project, doubt creeps in. She clicks the mouse, types a sentence, but it feels hollow.
Then, her eyes fall on an old journal by the window. She opens it, reads a poem she wrote during a rainy afternoon in Paris. The memories flood back—the city’s charm, the quiet café, the way words had flowed effortlessly then. Inspiration stirs.
Clara returns to her desk, her fingers moving faster now. She writes with renewed passion, blending past memories with present imagination. The page fills, line by line. Today, she has written the first words of a story that will carry her forward once more.
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