looking for my mojo

Last week I panicked when I realized I couldn't write. I could barely come up with one paragraph to tell you all that I can't write... And I thought of taking a long break, get my thoughts together, maybe get some real inspiration brewing... but then I realized that I might never come back from that lengthy break, so I'd rather try all sorts of stuff to get my mojo back...

So the first thing I did, of course, is google "writer's block." It's funny how the first thing we do in any situation now is go to google. And here's how Wikipedia defines it: Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. The condition varies widely in intensity. It can be trivial, a temporary difficulty in dealing with the task at hand. At the other extreme, some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers. So it's a condition. And here I thought it was just one of those things writers used as an excuse when they had nothing to write about!


So now that I know I have a condition I feel the need to treat it. I found all sorts of articles on how to overcome writer's block... And there were some very strange ideas, like "talk to a monkey or a stuffed animal." No comment.  Another was "take a shower, change clothes." Seriously. Like that's something you should do only if you're really desperate to write. And my ultimate favorite: "Find God." I don't know about you, but if I find God, I won't give a shit about writing anymore.


Anyway apparently there's a serious lack of good tips when it comes to getting yourself out of writer's block. My suspicion is it's because anyone who's ever attempted to write these tips were trying to overcome writer's block themselves, and just ended up by listing a bunch of crap. 


I've been trying to write a long time, so I've tried my fair share of crap before. Do not go isolate yourself for three days in Faraya when the weather is gloomy and your hotel room barely fits a bed. Ordering crappy room service while watching fuzzy TV and feeling lonely will not get you inspired. You'll just end up leaving by the end of day 2, even if it's dark outside and the fog is thick and you're afraid for your life while you drive back down. You'll just be out of three hundred bucks. 


Oh and do not buy five different books from Amazon.com that all promise to help you write the world's next best-selling novel. They take too long to arrive, you pay three times their worth on shipping and handling (what is "handling" anyway?) and when they actually get here and you take all five of them on your isolation retreat in Faraya, you're probably only gonna read the first three pages of each and decide that no one can tell you how to write, it's an inner talent that everyone works with differently. 


Here's what I'm willing to try to see if I can get my mojo back: I'm going to come up with a list of 8 things to do in the next month [February]. And we'll see what happens for each... if nothing else, there will be pictures to prove my efforts.

1. Shock a complete stranger. I don't know how yet
2. Be blond for a day... and a night
3. Call in sick, and see where the day goes
4. Rats night out: convince the Rats to leave their belles at home one night and give me some oh so needed Rattitude
5. Go on a road-trip: somewhere I've never been
6. Give someone something for V day even though I hate it and it's corny and whatever
7. Read the letters my grandparents wrote each other before they were married
8. Look for God, obviously 

So... wish me luck.

writer's block

In the last three days I've started post after post and they've all stayed in draft mode. So far. I've only written two posts in January and they were tough to write so I'm guessing, ladies and gentlemen, that I am suffering from writer's block. It is a terrible affliction, you see, because it makes me feel like I have no inspiration, nothing to write, that I will never be able to write again and it throws you into this writer's depression which is vicious cycle of course because the more you get depressed about not being able to write, the less you manage to write anything at all. So I'm embracing the solution to write about not writing. Sounds like something a therapist would tell me to do.

Anyone willing to throw inspiration my way, please do not refrain!

sundays and oranges

“Someone has somewhere commented on the fact that millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon” Susan Ertz

I used to hate Sundays.

When I was younger, the year my mother died, I used to spend every Sunday alone. I remember the rain, and the gloominess around the house, the gray sky, the emptiness of the chair where mom sat for two months straight with that respirator thing next to her, and me just staring into the television, feeling sorry for myself. My father would go out with friends, taking my brother and my sister with him, but I would refuse to go. I would rather sit on my couch, stare into mom’s empty spot and cry myself for hours, filled with hatred and anger, wanting to scream but having no one there to hear me. Sundays were cruel.

I’d think about the time when my dad was still my hero. I was six or seven, we lived in Paris, and my brother wasn’t born yet. We would have McDonald’s on the Champs Elysees, and then my father would take me to the movies, and it was our special time for just the two of us. My mom would be with my sister, and I’m not sure what they used to do but I didn’t really care, I was the older one and my dad would let me pick whichever movie I wanted, and he always enjoyed it just as much as me. We used to be happy on Sundays.

And then Sundays became all about how empty my family was. Without my mom to hold us together, I could feel it all coming apart. I was sixteen and I had just lost my mother and I was angry and life was as gloomy as those Sunday skies in February.

Then Sundays started changing, with the seasons and the years. When I moved to New York, Sundays became my favorite day of the week. We would wake up late and head down to Soho for brunch, and it is on one of those lovely New York Sundays that I tasted Eggs Benedict for the first time in my life --what became one of my absolute favorite things to eat. 

When I moved back, Sundays turned sour again. I worked for a TV station, which meant that it was open seven days a week, and I worked the Sunday shift. And I did not like my job. And I was stuck behind my computer for seven hours in a gloomy office with no windows, eating Casper and Gambini's Santa Fe salad. The upside? I'd get a message from my entire family who would be gathered for lunch, saying they watched me give the 5 o'clock news. It felt good to know the only reason I went to work on Sundays was for my family to sit around and ouhhh and ahhh at me from 5 to 5.25pm. 

When I finally quit my job, I was so excited to have Sundays back in my life, that having lunch with my family was pure pleasure. I learnt how to actually appreciate it when my uncle and my dad would fight about politics, when my cousins would scream about who broke the computer, and when my aunt would serve us the most delicious meals we would have all week. 

And then, as the catalyst of most changes, the infamous breakup happened. And it was on a weekend. So that started a whole new tradition of me spending every possible minute at the Twins' house. One comforted me with his world-class scrambled-eggs, and the other listened to me whine for weeks. And months. The tradition of Sunday brunch with friends was finally installed. The sound of the Hyper Twin working away in his kitchen always brings a smile to my heart. I walk in and sure enough, there he is, hidden behind pots and pans and cutting boards, one eye on the boiling water, the other making sure he doesn’t chop off his finger along with the tomatoes. I put my bag down, take off my jacket, and before we even say hello, he starts giving me directions. "Start pressing the oranges. There are more of them in the fridge. We need at least thirty."Ah, the oranges. I get the same task every time. 

Now since I started working on a TV Series, Sundays have a whole new meaning. The alarm rings at 6, or even 5am sometimes. Then it's a myriad of things to do, actors who we need to get to the set in time; schedules we ned to follow, the lunch we have to make sure is here on time, the make-up for every actors, oh, and the actually acting...  We go home more tired from the weekend then from the week at work... But it's the kind of Sunday that mixes productivity, good company and fun. And that has to be the best kind of Sundays of all.

Now yesterday was a Sunday. I woke up with a kiss, went to brunch with my friends, talked about different TV opportunities with my TV peeps, had coffee with Classy, had a whatsapp group conversation with 5 friends who are in five different countries for about two hours (felt like we all went out for coffee), then had dinner with my family --finishing it all off with my grandmother's most famous dish and my ultimate favorite: horra2 osba3o. 

I guess I kinda' like Sundays now. 

unexpectedly unexpected

Being back from holidays is a very harsh reality check, especially when you spent the last 8 days in Paradise and you land back in Beirut. No offense Beirut lovers, I love this city most days of the year, but not today. Not when I just came back from blue skies and turquoise seas, deserted islands and elephant rides and white sand as far as the eyes can see.

I haven't been able to write anything since I got back because the mere idea of getting back into my "life" was depressing to me. Ever since I came back last week, I've tried to pretend that I was still away, hiding away from my usual hangouts, getting lectured by dad because he "hasn't seen me one second since I got back" and being passively present at work --physically but not mentally.

Now it's Monday and there are no more excuses. Everyone is back to reality by now and even though it sucks for a few days, I know that by next week, Thailand will be just a memory and life will be in the present again. The streets full of traffic at any hour of the day; The overcrowded bars, even though you'd think everyone got wasted enough the last two weeks of December, turns out they are even more crowded now; in the office where stacks of papers have piled up and you had promised yourself to put everything back in order in 2012; The bedroom where the new housekeeper (God Bless her, she's the sweetest person on earth but she doesn't understand a word I say) has decided to mix all your clothes with your sisters', as if sharing a room and fighting over who borrows what isn't enough; The to-do-list that you have to stop adding to, and start actually getting done. Did I mention all I've done since I got back is post pictures of Thailand on Facebook and play with my new iphone?

But sometimes in the midst of a nauseating routine, you find a glimpse of the good stuff --and what I mean by the good stuff is Sex. Turns out letting your guard down and just doing what you want to do sometimes takes you to better places. Let me explain --my friend Curls meets this guy over Xmas break: she doesn't live here, he doesn't live here, they've got nothing to lose. They find themselves attracted to each other and in that moment she knows all she wants from him is physical. She lets her guard down, doesn't play games, goes for what she wants and what happens? It actually clicks. I mention this because she is the queen of meeting new guys and it not working out. She is almost always looking for something serious, something meaningful, and she's a romantic one --but usually in stead of letting things flow as they should, she is prepared to settle for less. She meets a guy, realizes he fits the checklist, and holds onto him for dear life. Why? Because after years of getting run over by men you develop this phobia (and this is purely my own theory) that you may very well never find what you've always dreamed of and you settle for less. And if there is one thing I hate most in life it has to be just that. I almost fell for this too, not so long ago: met a guy, found him good-looking and charming and sweet and A-Perfect on every item on the list but you know what, at the end of our "date" I was disappointed. There he was: great on paper but no butterflies. Amazingly well-rounded but with nothing "special." No edge. Nothing out of the box. It was a perfectly well wrapped box with a pretty bow on top, and I'm sorry but that's not for me. And it's not for Curls either. Now the second she thought "I've got nothing to lose" suddenly she was herself. She broke down the barriers we put up to be our most attractive self, and put her cards on the table. I know, men like to chase. They don't want all your cards upfront. But it's all in the attitude. I spent all year listening to all kinds of advice from all kinds of people and it got me nowhere, until I met this guy randomly and I decided to have a one night stand --because that is exactly what I wanted-- and it turns out it was a damn good stand to take. It felt liberating to finally act the way I want, with no calculating and no over-thinking, just simply following my own wants and needs. 

So I think I finally may have figured it out. It's not the games and the number of calls and the bitch 101. It's whether you do what you want, or whether you do what you think he wants you to do. Simple as that. And here's the thing about doing what you want: it is so much more fun.