I’ve taken the week off to work on a novel idea.
It’s a story with two voices.
I can’t tell you much more because I don’t know a lot more.
I set my alarm for 15 minutes and write from the point of view of my first character.
I set my alarm again and write from the point of view of my second character.
I do this over and over for two hours until lack of knowledge makes my fingers slow down and I start to wonder many things, like how easy would it be for a Cuban to move to Spain?
And, what might my Cuban Mum cook for dinner?
When I was backpacking in Cuba I remember one of their specials was a plate of shredded pork, appetisingly named, ‘Old Clothes’ .
Velvet and I chewed our way through it and promised ourselves that before we left the island we’d splash out on a lobster.
Instead, after days of awful food in La Habana, we came across an Italian restaurant and, I’m ashamed to say, splashed out a lot of money on a plate of spaghetti and a bottle of wine (or two).
It might have been cheaper if we hadn’t been so merry and mistakenly left a massive tip; easily the biggest tip of my life.
Would my Cuban Mum have eaten ‘Old Clothes’ at home?
These and many more questions prompt me on a trip through Google.
Operation: Find out all about Cuba.
I’m not sure. I’m hoping it’ll make sense in the end.
I open a blog profile of a Cuban living in Barcelona.
Her English isn’t too good. She’s written,
Interests: Friends chips.
She’d registered to the site in 2006 so by now she might even be in a relation chip.
I try to send her a message but it asks me to ‘Sign In’ so I look elsewhere.
Writing for long periods of time disorientates me and as I create fictional lives I start to feel disconnected from my own.
This means it’s time to start looking for a job.
I’m still Shopgirling on a Saturday, which keeps me interacting with fellow humans and supposedly sane, although I have my doubts about the latter.
Last Saturday, I was in the window changing the display when I heard a cry of ‘”It’s open!”
A little girl came in all by herself.
She walked around the shop inspecting our lights and of course I felt like I had to say something.
“So, when you’re older and have your own house, are you going to have a big chandelier?”
What a consumerist thought to feed an eight year old; I half-wished I could take it back.
My miniature customer wasn’t amused.
She looked at me with disdain and walked haughtily out of the door.
Like I said, a dose of quality interaction to keep me sane.