The Salad Dressing and Other Disasters

Writer's Block

I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write and it's driving me mad. This is my one opportunity – Christmas. Three weeks off. Three glorious weeks full of possibility where you could go on holiday, rent a cottage and do what you have been born to do: write. Write your story. Think of your story. Think of the plot line. Think. You were told a certain plot line as a child. You were told 'my life will be like this'. You will meet your husband around 19. You will be ready to get married by 21. You will, for that is the only option for your life. 

What will your life be like. Your life will be like that. When 22 comes, 25 comes. And with 25, a number of wedding invitations. And then there's 30 and 32 and a few more flood in. Then your younger cousins get married, your younger brother, your old uncle whose wife has passed away. 

Three badly planned, ill spent weeks, for reasons I will get to in a minute. The thing about the writing is I work full time and when I come back in the evening I am either too tired or tending to my air bnb guests. Yes, I started air bnb-ing in July in order to get a friend out of my flat.

She'd moved in for three weeks and ended up staying four months and the only thing I could think of was telling her I was going to be air bnb-ing my flat in July. It was the only thing I could possibly think of. Never mind 'I was wondering if you could either move out or start paying me some rent'. I could have said that. But I couldn't have that conversation. I couldn't even say 'My parents will be visiting quite soon and they will need your room', something like that. I couldn't muster the courage because I'm secretly, probably quite scared of my friend which is why I let it get so out of control in the first place.

Anyway here I am at home. Three weeks, no plans. Long story. Short story.