I am here now encouraging myself, telling me I can do it, I want to do it, and that I am ok in doing it.

I am happy. Don’t get me wrong, I am well-mannered, and educated with it comes to engage with other people. It’s just that I prefer not to.

The HB on the paper, with those wide lines in faint black and red. I can see my hand: my very first act of creation. My statement.

She sounded mature, grave, depressed, heavy, damned, charismatic, beautiful, fascinating, alluring, very enigmatic. All the things I wasn't.

I know: this is the beginning of the end.

This feeling of gipsytude in me, of days with no name, not keeping time, not counting hours. The epitome of letting it be, que será, será...

an artist slash writer ⧿ she is trying to make it ⧿ I really don’t know what she does ⧿ but I love her very much ⧿ please don’t tell her...

There is no fucking maze, no fucking wall, no fucking way out because even the way in is a deception.

To be a writer means to write, every day. A minimum of words that make sense and are grammatically correct. Every day.

...explaining : it’s not an exorcism gone wrong, it’s menstrual pain! - to our coach driver while travelling in an Islamic country in 1981.

I want to dress like a combination of Lara Croft, Indiana Jones and Dr Hodgins (satchel and all), be adventurous...

In the background, La La Land soundtrack provides that kind of je ne sais quoi which we all need when writing. A mixture of rhythm, feel...