Nearly two months...

Before I left London all of my friends were informed of my decision to finish this novel. And I was as serious about it as I am about Muay Thai K-Boxing. I even managed to carry all of my notes and book, my Mac and a pencil case full of pens all the way to Romania. Now nearly two months later I realise I did not manage to write a single line. Not a usable one at least. My procrastination has reached new heights and I realise I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown as most of my imaginary friends take turns to read their notes for the intervention that takes place at this moment in my head. They all struggle to maintain their disdain towards my lack of interest in writing. 

And while one of my friends has managed to have the most beautiful baby boy and move to York, my book lacks pages. I tell myself that I have time and inspiration but every time I face the blank page I run.  I find new things to do, even things like taking the trash. I swear if tomorrow I start cleaning the flat I will pick up my laptop and move to the woods, where I have no excuses to check Instagram, Vine, Twitter, no way or form to avoid my lack of initiative when it comes to my story. 

I keep saying to my closest friends that I don’t even have that feeble excuse other writers use: I have no inspiration. I struggle with the constant little nagging voice in my head, the one that informs me, every time I pick up my Mac to try to add to this story, I might lack something or anything to make it. And while the story is clear in my head and most of the details and little pieces of information are all in place, I find it that every time I start writing it lacks conviction. 

And I could lie to tell you, it’s not about the money or the fame. Somewhere deep inside it’s a small amount about the fame. When I restarted my writing I read a quote about our need of leaving our mark in history. Some people have it less, and even when they have it they struggle to understand what they need and go through life with a certain unhappiness. When asked if I care my answer will be yes. I care about what other people think, if not I would stop looking for a certain reaction when I speak about my story. And while I know that I most certain am not the first one to write about this subject, and maybe I am not the best (and certain days like today when all I wrote felt like it was written by a five-year-old while snorting glitter and playing with her Dora doll), I still try my best to work through those doubts and thoughts that plague my mind. 

Or maybe I need to kick my own behind and pick up my Mac and just go for it… Just after my imaginary characters finish this intervention…

How I met your mother, everytime I think about the word intervention...