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...

Packing

 I don’t know how other people are when it comes to packing, but can I just say I am terrible. Not because I don’t understand the concept, but because I take packing to the extreme.  And by that I mean the amount of Vino and Bible Juice I consume when perched on top of my suitcases while trying to zip them.

I go through different stages when it comes to this activity called packing.

Stage 1: I decide to travel and the amount of time I travel for but due to the fact I am unsure how long my holiday will be, my packing task became increasingly stressful quite early.

Stage 2: I calculate the number of outfits I need. I like to have options, so I devised a plan where I have two outfits a day. My incapability to be one of those women that say: “I don’t need new dresses, shoes, bags and/or shirts, skirts, shorts, tops” makes my clothing collection a tad impressive. But the only times I complain about the amount of clothes that I have is when the day I am meant to iron my clothes comes. If I could remember that on my next shopping trip I could stop the anger when having to delve into the ironing task.

Stage 3: Start packing and frustrating about the amount of clothes I have decided to take with me on my holiday. And for the last few days, that is one of the few things I have done. I pack as if I travel to a place that has no shops. What can I say? I like to be always prepared. You never know when a "Zombie Apocalypse" might start and I do not want to look messy when I fight for my life.

I am meant to travel tomorrow morning. So my last night was planned to finish this packing business and be done. In the end, I went for a yoga class and a Byron Burger. And tonight when I thought I might be finished with my bags and after I spent an incredible amount of time trying to zip them up I discovered a traitor shoe hiding underneath one of my suitcases.

And for the first time in a long time I can say that I went back to my novel so I can procrastinate from packing. Trust me the irony is not lost on me.

This will not be the first time I will arrive at my destination with a shoe missing and knowing me it will not be the last one.

Bible Juice makes everything better...

Idiotically Happy...

I know that as a writer I should avoid adverbs like the devil avoids Holly water, but I found that the phrase used as a post title is the only way to express my current feeling. 

I woke up with a silly grin on my face – no reason for that – and the day continued like that. In the morning, I managed to once again shatter a bowl on my kitchen floor. I called my mother to ask her if I have any Greek blood in me, and her reply, bless her little cotton socks, was that I will get married. The milk pouring down my pyjama top was my reaction followed by the five minutes of laughter. When this period of clumsiness started I thought of it to be annoying. Now I just ignore it. My hoover and I have never been this close. I already had to purchase a new set of Bible Juice Glasses as I have managed to destroy Karl and all of his friends. And I will soon have to purchase some new bowls. Now that I think about it, my future husband owes me the glasses and bowls, as I don't want to invest any money in something that will shatter at one point or another on the floor. Until then, plastic is my best option.

And in the afternoon I managed to burn my puff pastry. I only have myself to blame. I lost the time due to my addiction to trashy TV. And by trashy I mean investigation shows, for research purposes. 

But the activity that has made me idiotically happy – or maybe I am just so exhausted I mistake fatigue with happiness, is Muay Thai K-Boxing. This is my third week to kick and punch and knee and everything that has to do with Muay Thai.  And even after getting kicked in the face and unceremoniously fell on my backside while my leg was still in my partner’s hands, I still love it.  I have to admit maybe, I did not get it the first time I attended a class. When my partner asked me what’s my first instinct when I see a fist flying towards the face, my reply was: “Run! Fast and far away!” But now I can see it. It’s when adrenaline kicks, when you are surrounded by a great group of people, when you look like a complete mess, when the time passes without you looking at the clock once, that’s the moment when I realised Muay Thai K-boxing is fun. No matter the amount of bruises I model (I think they make look like a bad a*s – I know I said no bad words, but trust me if you would see my legs you would understand that no other words in my writer vocabulary can describe my current hyped up feeling). Between boxing and Muay Thai, my dream of a ninja-spy-assassin career is closer than I thought. Just in case writing doesn’t pan out for me. Or in case I will not have new ideas for novels, I could always use my experience as a spy. 

I just have to say thanks (and sorry) to my instructor Rob. Thanks for great laughs and an amazing atmosphere. And for the fact that no matter how tired I feel I still attend the classes. And after 90 minutes of sweating like no lady should, I walk home with a smile on my face. 

Something I can add to my spy CV...

While walking...

I have decided to make a list of the funniest, craziest and insane experiences I have had recently while walking in London. A few months ago (around the same time I gave up smoking) I made it my daily routine to walk the 10,000 steps the doctor and heath specialists recommend us for a healthy life. And can I just say that London is the one of the most interesting cities in the world to walk through (well maybe except Pataya in the night – the number of sequins one sees in Thailand is rather impressive) because of the amount of outlandish experiences one can experience.

1. While walking to my favourite book market on Sunday I passed a construction site. Can I just say that my least favourite thing in this world is a construction site? Stopping at the lights meant that one of the workers got the opportunity to greet me with the following question: “How are you, sexy?” The funny part: the guy next to me turned to the construction worker. I burst out laughing while construction worker number 2 tells "Sexy" that his colleague speaks to me. I think it’s safe to say that we all know for which team my road companion plays for in his spare time. And when the weather is sunny who can resist a hot construction worker?

2. “Can I just say you have a crazy pair of shoes? For a second there I had this image of a Candystriper.“ Because I like to see the best in people I instantly assumed he meant the volunteer nurse uniforms I saw in a Sex and the City episode and not some weird stripper fantasy. It was a funny way to stop me on the street. Made me question my taste in shoes for a split moment, but that’s insane. I have incredible taste when it comes to fashion – a pair of red and white stripes flats were the choice of the day (always wear flats when walking 10,000 steps and/or shopping). 

Is this what you had in mind?

3. The moment the guy dressed as the Grim Reaper wants to speak to you. Look I have watched an enormous amount of horror movies so can I just give you an advice: “Run! Even if it’s not the real deal or a scene from a movie, what’s the point in taking unnecessary risks?” So that’s what I did (and it might have been one of the few times I have listened to my own advice). I started walking faster and lost Grim Reaper in the crowd. 

Say what now?

                                             

                     

4. The moment when someone stops you on the street to call you cute. I know that most of the times I look like a teenager due to my unwillingness to wear make-up or behave like a grown-up, but I just need to say that you should not call anyone over the age of 12 cute. I accept the following adjectives when describing me: pretty, crazy, smart, awesome (as sometimes I describe myself), amazing. There are a few more, but those can only be used when you have met me for more than 5 minutes (and before your mind takes you in a naughty place I mean words used to describe my mind). 

5. If you use the word Paedophile I will run. Faster than I would run to a Christian Louboutin sale. I get it: I am petite and blessed to look younger than my 25 years. But the use of the following sentence is not acceptable: “ I was worried that you would think I am a Paedophile if I spoke to you!” Guys an advice: if you are worried about someone’s age don’t use that phrase as an opening. Because every normal person or crazy like myself will just turn around and walk away. 

Shoes? Where?

6. If I tell you that I imagine killing people for my stories and you don’t run away I assume that something must be really wrong with you. Not because I would do anything crazy (I get my adrenaline from climbing, Muay Thai k-boxing, Boxing, antigravity and occasionally Bungee Jumping) but if I would meet someone that is so open about murder 5 seconds later you the only thing you would see would be the dust left by my running. 

7. Stalking is bad, people. Recently I made a trip to my favourite coffee shop (not that I drink coffee, but the courtyard is so calm and inspiring in the summer) and while walking back home I went into a shop to purchase some notebooks. Apparently the amount of notebooks I have everywhere is not enough. While I was distracted by hand stitched journals a guy comes up to me to tell me that he saw me walking down the street and he just had to walk into the shop after me. To which my mind’s reply was: “No, you did not! Most certainty when an impulse like that strikes again make sure that you ignore it. Every time!” I think it’s safe to say the conversation did not go too far. Particularly after he called my hair crazy. Can I just say that my hair is normal? Not crazy. Except my mind, nothing else about me is crazy. 

Can this never happen?

I might have other stories like the time a guy ran after me to tell me my dog is cute. Another stalker. But for the time being, I have to go back to my novel and packing. 

Sometimes when you fall...

It’s up to you to decide: do you get up and try again or do you just give up and go to bed? I chose to get up and go again. I always said that every fall is a new beginning. And the fall is painless; it's the landing that hurts you. It’s those moments when you are down and you are vulnerable that make you realise how strong you are.

Because of the type of stories I write sometimes I get to close to my subjects emotions. And because I try to write a realistic scene I tend to emote my characters feelings. But when you go through a period where you are more vulnerable than usual (and it happens even to the best of us) some of those particular traits affect you more than others. So I took a few days off and focused on getting back where I was. Sometimes when a scene or a story feels disappointing, the doubts start creeping in and you start wondering if you are cut for this. And for a long time in my life every time these doubts crept in, I decided to put my writing on the back burner. Not a great idea since the feelings, the stories, the characters and even though it sounds crazy, the voices – and people that write novels know those voices – are constantly in your head and because you don’t do what comes as an instinct to you they overwhelm you.

So this time I decided to ignore those idiotic doubts and keep at it. I am strong and I can do whatever I choose to do because my life has prepared me for everything. So to all of those little doubts in my mind: I can do it. Nothing can stop me. There are no limits, no trials, and no excuses. I will do it.

This was the decision that I took today while walking through London. With the sun caressing my skin, feeling the wind in my hair and music in my ears it was easier to go back to the basics. I accepted that maybe I changed too many details from the initial story, that maybe I complicate things a tad, so in the end I went back to my research and my novel.

It might take me longer (fudge my need for perfection) and it might take me a bigger investment in Bible Juice and Coloured Water, but in the end, I chose to try again. And if I fail, this time I will fail better. And if I fall again this time I will fall harder.

The falling is the easy part,

The landing is the part that hurts,

But that feeling when you get up

And try again

Is the reason to live...

Boxing gloves and Vodka

Last evening one of my friends had the great idea to bring a bottle of Vino to visit me. She was just the carrier of the Vino bottle since this world is full of technical people that have not yet invented Bible Juice bottles that walk alone from the shops in people’s fridge. As the weather in London has decided to finally be hot, by the time it got to my place White Vino got warm. And while I finished my paragraph I asked my friend to help Vino climb into the freezer for a couple of minutes.

I was so focused on the writing - and by that I mean my attempt to save my new draft that contained several thousand of words out of which the majority were epithets that I used to describe my writing abilities - I did not realize the amount of time that had passed since I send my friend to help Vino. As I call out for her, she walks into the lounge with the most confused look on her face. She asks me why do I currently have a pair of boxing gloves and two bottles of vodka in my freezer? It would make more sense if I would keep the boxing gloves next to the freezer and use them to cling to the vodka bottle so my hands stay toasty and warm. Now I have to admit, it was my turn to be confused.

First of all: Why did I not think of a second use for my boxing gloves? And I don't refer to their use to cling Vodka bottles but to use them when I need to grab things from the freezer.

Second: What do you people keep in your freezer? And by that I mean the type of people that are less crazy.

And last: Why is my friend so certain I have a Coloured Water addiction? I did not have a drink until last night.

In my defence, I did have a strong reason to enjoy my Vino last night. I did end up writing for nearly an entire day. First in my favourite coffee shop and later in the afternoon back at home.

I did reply to her that my boxing gloves are in my freezer so the bacteria die and the vodka is for anaesthesia purposes. You never know when you need to perform one of those complicated operations that you see in movies and you need to have alcohol. And since Vodka tastes better frozen, well it made sense. It isn't like I prepare my morning smoothie with Vodka instead of almond milk (it might have happened once, but in my defence it was late afternoon and a Saturday – not that was an excuse but I had no almond milk and I was too lazy to go out).

At least now my friends try to understand better my nature. And the look of surprise on their face is less evident when I discuss ideas for my novels with them. And now back to my book....

Nothing left to say....

Competitive by proximity...

I have always been a competitive person, but more so when I did not have to compete. And next to my competitiveness put my proud nature as a Romanian (that’s the fault of the men in my family; they decided I should know Romania's history and the things I should be proud off) and you get the most annoying person to watch sporting events (or for that any kind of events) when someone I admire competes.

Yesterday, for example, was the Gentleman’s Doubles Final at Wimbledon. And for whoever watched the tennis activities, a Romanian was in the final with his Dutch partner. It's not that I push the Romanian, but since we share the same mother-nation, I have a certain affinity towards him.

I cannot for the love of what’s high and mighty watch a full tennis match, or any form of competitive programs, as I get quite anxious. I like to call it competitive by proximity. The explanation is that as I am close to the TV, then the person on TV should win this. You would think over five years of yoga would have thought me to keep my competitive nature in check. But no, keeping my emotions in check is not my strong suit. That’s why I don’t play poker (well that, and I think shoes are a better investment than a gambling addiction).

In the end, I did spend the entire match flicking between the tennis and this criminal show I have been watching for research purposes (and I mean the show I watch to feel proud when I discover in almost every episode who the murderer is). That’s one of the reasons I enjoy watching sporting events alone. Or maybe with my dad since he does not even blink when he hears his little girl swearing worse that a sailor.  Now that Wimbledon is finished (and what a weekend it was) I have no excuses to avoid writing.

So I have spent an entire day working on my novel. Especially after playing Ping-Pong with my television and doing "research" yesterday. And I can tell everyone expecting my first draft that it should be ready in this lifetime. I hope.

                    How can I watch this? How?...