The second of my quarantine vlogs, one month into isolating from the pandemic.
Things are precarious right now.
I am writing this from the other end of a pandemic. Or maybe from the middle. Or even the beginning. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?
As I worked on the pitch for my web series, I realized that even though I’d put my novel writing on hold, I didn’t want to give up the story entirely. It wasn’t going to be as easy to pick my novel back up as it was to put down. A story has peaks and valleys; I’d stopped in a valley and it was difficult to find the momentum to reach the next peak from there. So I turned to research, where I always turn when I want to get my head into the story without actually writing. However, on this occasion, Google wasn’t enough.
I needed the mountains.
I’ve had a busy weekend.
First of all, you should know I got a job. It’s a part-time thing and it came in the nick of time, according to my bank account. I don’t know what this means for the acting thing.
I stopped writing for a while. Half because I got busy, half because, I don’t know. I stopped feeling like a writer.
I’m in an airport as I write this, but won’t be anymore when you read it. I’m on my way to Ho Chi Minh city in Vietnam, where I will rendezvous with my mom, my sister Amy, and my brother Marvin. My flights were booked later and as a result, I’m travelling separately from them.
I had a bad day last week. The worst in a while, with a bunch of different not-fun things coming together all in that one day. And I discovered something amazing.
My computer is getting slower by the day and it is driving my crazy. Also driving me crazy? My room. I don’t have a chair for my desk so I have to bend over to use my laptop which is uncomfortable and probably bad for me. I have stuff all over the floor in an attempt to organise. My closet is still waiting for some coverage. My wall is still blank. It is not the inspiring space I wanted to spend my summer writing in. It is not a retreat in any way except that it has a door which separates me from the less-than stellar living conditions outside of it…
When I first left for England, my little brother was nine years old. Today, he’s twelve.
Time flies, doesn’t it?
Yesterday I said I would be braver, so today I’m going to write about what scares me more than anything: my feelings.
That was supposed to be funny. Things are never funny when I try to make them funny. It’s a curse, really.
I was trying so hard to get used to the idea of my little brother getting older. For the past three months I was going around in a stupor, repeating to myself “Bub’s going to be twelve soon. Bub’s going to be twelve soon.” I convinced myself of it. Then I got home and discovered he was only going to be eleven and I picked him up in a huge hug and yelled “Thank god! You’re too little to be big!”