Confession #27
I've got another confession to make. Are you sitting down? This is a big one. I don't want you to fall over in shock and bump your head.
Ready?
Are you sure?
Okay, here it is: every time I sit down to start Chapter One of a new book, I'm paralyzed with fear.
Seriously. I seize up. My chest feels tight, and the muscles in my jaw clench. My mind spins with insanity. What the heck is the first line? What if it's not catchy enough? How much do I put in the first chapter? What if I have no words left in me? Then I start to think of all the other things I need to do, because even cleaning is more attractive than starting a new book.
Today was such a day. A few days ago I had this kick-ass idea for a story. Friday I wrote the synopsis. Saturday I rewrote the synopsis, changing the story almost completely after having really thought about it. This morning I was going to start writing the chapters.
So I wouldn't get tempted by the sudden urge to reorganize my wardrobe, I went to the café. On the way, it began: the seizing, the clenching, the spinning. I wanted to turn around and go home. Starting it tomorrow wouldn't be so bad, right?
Instead I gave myself the usual pep talk. I've done this before—lots of times. I'm probably capable of doing it a few more. I just sit down and do it.
Once I arrived at the café, I pulled out my notebook, noted that I was a freak, and then began handwriting out what I wanted the first chapter to say. In minutes, I knew exactly what the first line needed to be, so I turned on Lassiter (my faithful lappie) and got going.
I wrote 2200 words. Not all of them are great, but I think I'm off to a good start. A couple edits and the beginning will be solid gold. I'm quite excited about this idea.
I wish I didn't go through this every time, but I guess it's part of my process. Fear and doubt—what a duo.
Have I disillusioned you? Are you stunned? Do you feel relieved because you have fears as you work too? Tell me. Inquiring Kates want to know.
Sunday, Lovely Sunday
Everyone's been emailing me, asking for pictures. So... photojournalistic essay time!
Really I'm killing a few birds (so to speak) and giving people what they want. Some of you will be able to live vicariously through my vicarious living. The rest of you will (hopefully) get your entertainment fix for the week, in the form of my blog.
See how good I am to you all?
Sunday morning started with a writing session at Bar de Cao, the café across the street.
I've been going there most days to work. It's quaint inside, the waitresses are friendly and leave me alone, there's plenty of seating, and the doors aren't tricky. All pluses.
After a couple hours at the laptop, I decided I'd walk to the Feria de San Telmo to see what was going on. Mostly I just wanted to work off the medialunas I ate.
The walk is roughly twenty blocks I'd say—twenty-five minutes if you trek like I do. At one point, I had to cross Avenida 9 de Julio:
I've been wondering what happened on the 9th of July that warranted having such a big-ass street named after it. The picture doesn't really show how huge it is—the sucker is twenty lanes across (ten each direction). Yeah, I could look up to see what historical significance the date has, but I've been having too much fun speculating each time I cross the road. (Today I theorized that it was named after the day the first Starbucks opened in Buenos Aires.)
Anyway, I walked on to the Feria. A feria is basically a street fair. The one in San Telmo is each Sunday and the largest one in the city.
Lots of artisans selling their wares. Also lots of musicians and tango dancers, though the dancers didn't impress me (my sister has raised my bar). There were a couple flamenco guitarists who were awesome though.
To the left, there's a square where people have strange booths set up, selling not just antiques but weirdness. Like there were these two old women dressed up as babies or dolls or something. What was up with that? And there was a man dressed as a big eyeball. (I'm not clever enough to make that up.)
See the hordes of people? It's like that for blocks and blocks:
But there's plenty of opportunity for respite. You can pick up a cold beverage and grab a curb, like the people above.
Jugo de naranja (fresh-squeezed orange juice) is very big here. There's an orange juice vendor every five feet. So if you have a thing for OJ, Buenos Aires is the place to be.
And lastly...
Me, happily disheveled at the end of the day, looking forward to the next morning's medialuna fix.
The New Office
The first thing I did when I arrived in Buenos Aires was to look for a café.
Actually, the first thing I did was join a gym. The national food here is pizza. And meat. And pasta. And bread. So unless I wanted to gain twenty pounds, it seemed prudent to find a gym pronto. I may still need a triple bypass from all the steak and cheese, but at least I'll look good under the knife.
The next thing I did was look for a new café (or two) to write at. I decided I wanted one close to home and one further away, because sometimes a girl feels adventurous.
I found the close-to-home one on my way to the Microcentro (the downtown area). It looked perfect: light and appropriately studious with a few women and half a dozen men in suits working on laptops inside. I thought I'd try it to see if it had bueno ondo (good vibes, as they say here). I walked up to the door and pulled on it.
It wouldn't open.
Figuring it opened inward, I pushed on it. Nothing still. I stood back and stared at it. Then I looked at the store hours, wondering if they closed for siesta (though cafés don't typically). Nope—they were open till 8pm.
I did what any normal person would do: I shoved on it, and then yanked back for good measure. Accomplishing nothing except attracting the attention of every patron inside.
I have, of course, not been back since. When I do go back, I will be appropriately disguised.
But I did find another café—one that has an open entry so I didn't have to mess with the door. The waiters are forgiving of my awful French-accented Argentinian Spanish, and it's a lot of kitschy fun inside.
So you can picture me spending the late morning/early afternoon at one of the little tables in front, drinking a café con leche, eating medialunas (the Argentine answer to a croissant), and hacking away at my laptop. Note: I reserve the right to order a Coca Light every now and then. Gotta follow your whims, you know.
Something Borrowed, Something Black
My friend Dawn loaned me a suitcase.
No, it's not pretty. Or stylish. Or hip in any way. But Dawn did a pilgrimage similar to the one I'm doing, only to Great Britain, and this was the luggage she took. It seemed fitting that the bag should accompany me on my sojourn to Argentina. Plus, it's tropical looking.
My entire life is packed in this one bag. Minus ten small boxes of books I have stored in a friend's garage. Impressive or depressing—you decide.
As I packed, I realized there was a big, gaping hole in my wardrobe: a little black dress.
Don't get me wrong—I have some kick-ass dresses. But a simple black dress that says hi there, fellow? Nope. But I packed my big-girl shoes in hopes that in Buenos Aires the perfect little dress waits for me.