2 Writer’s block
2
Writer’s block
London, England
2022
Isabella
I need you like I need air to breathe.
What a load of rubbish!
I press the delete button even harder than usual. This cliché is so cheesy it makes my eyes roll back in my head. Holy Tessa Dare of clever phrases, forgive my sins. This author is not in her normal condition.
Calm down, Isabella, it’s just a phase. It’ll pass.
A very long phase, but that’s OK. I consider myself an optimist, although lately it’s been hard to keep my spirits up with this horrendous writer’s block. I haven’t published anything for a year now. Not a single short story. Every time I face the blank computer screen, it’s as if my ideas are suffocated by a giant mental wall, and I end up typing these meaningless words.
With a frustrated sigh, I close the laptop screen, putting my “novel” to one side, and massage my temples, feeling the twinge of a headache. I don’t deny that sometimes I feel like giving up for good. To let it go, to carry on working in a café and paying my bills as I have been doing for the last few months, to go out and explore London without thinking about my stories. The problem is that I love writing, and I don’t want to give it up.
I reach for my phone. This delicate moment deserves an upbeat song. There’s nothing an inspiring lyric can’t solve. I click on my “Sunshine” playlist and choose the first song that jumps out at me. “Here Comes the Sun”. OK, The Beatles should do the trick. As soon as the beat starts, I push back my chair and stand up with the device in my hand, stretching my aching back. Duke, my corgi dog who is lying in the corner of the room, just lifts his head and looks at me, wagging his tail slightly. He settles back down as soon as I let out a low moan, moving his neck slowly. Everyone had told me that when you’re in your thirties everything starts to hurt, but I’d never really believed it.
Well, it’s true, especially for me, as I’m basically just sitting around at home on these colder days.
I walk into the kitchen singing. I open the fridge, pull out a can of Coke Zero, and leave it on the counter to get a glass from the cupboard. Look around, believing I’ve left a chocolate bar here. I can’t find it. Cinthia, my flatmate, must have got hold of it this morning.
Leaning my back against the sink, I stare at nothing as I sip my Coke, reflecting on how I came to this unfortunate situation in my writing career. I don’t want to put all the blame on Matheus, but it’s a bit difficult considering that my inspiration to write ended along with my relationship. How can I write romance novels when I find myself deeply wounded by love?
I thought I’d laugh about it one day, but it’s been over a year and a half now, and I still can’t laugh when I think about how my ex ended things. And what a bad ending, since he called me with the cliché that he had met someone else. I’ve never been a big fan of clichés, and now I officially hate them. I’m Brazilian, and Sorocaba, my hometown, is close to S?o Paulo, where Matheus works in a law firm on Paulista Avenue. It’s only an hour and a half by car, so it’s undeniable that, after almost three years of relationship, he could have driven there to do it looking me in the eye. What a fool I was to consider spending the rest of my life with a guy who can’t drive a hundred kilometres for me.
The rest of my life. It’s ridiculous.
As always happens when I think about it, I feel my stomach lurch, so I put the Coke aside after just one sip. No point trying to drink the rest. I put the can away in the fridge, go to my room, and throw myself on the bed, opening my Instagram feed without stopping the music, which is now playing “Love On Top” by Beyoncé. Duke follows me, his paws making a clack clack on the wooden floor. He jumps onto my bed, settling at my feet. I must like torturing myself. I can’t resist getting Matheus’s profile up on Instagram. I stopped following him as soon as we broke up, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped following what he posts. Glancing at his latest photo, I already bitterly regret having given in to my impulse.
There he is, with that broad smile I loved so much, at a barbecue with his new girlfriend, Julia. I don’t know her, but she seems perfect. Beautiful, a lawyer, and from what I saw on her feed, they have a lot in common.
I used to be an “opposites attract” enthusiast. I like contrasts. Today, I’m not so sure it really works. I started dating Matheus out of a genuine desire to make it work, even though we were different in many ways. So much so that, after a year of dating, I started saving most of my salary as an English teacher, already thinking about our marriage. The money at least enabled me to fulfil a long-held wish: to live abroad for a while – a wish I had put aside for him, in fact. I’ve got my job, my papers are in order, and I don’t have a date to return.
I open my playlist again and stop the music. The silence immediately feels good. I guess I was wrong – no positive lyrics seem to be helping today. As soon as I put the device away, I hear the keys in the front door and Duke jumps out of bed to meet Cinthia.
“Bella?” Cinthia calls.
“I’m in my room,” I reply.
Not even two minutes later, Cinthia appears at the door. Her curly hair is tied up in a stylish ponytail and she’s wearing a black T-shirt, denim trousers, and boots. Her mauve blush is the perfect shade for her dark skin and discreet gold eyeshadow emphasises her big brown eyes – elegant, as per usual.
“With sunshine like this on your day off, you’re lying there?” She leans against the doorframe with a careful expression, her British accent as charming as ever. “I wish I’d been able to get out earlier to go on a walk.”
She’s a make-up artist and works in a shopping centre in Canary Wharf, near our home.
“It’s cold, and I decided to try writing.” I sigh.
“Did you manage to?” She seems excited. Cinthia is one of my only friends here, so she knows my whole story and how I’ve suffered from writer’s block.
“Nothing. Just rubbish.”
She frowns.
“Oh, what a shame. But don’t beat yourself up. It’s a phase. All writers go through it.”
“I thought the same thing, although we have to admit that this phase is already too long.”
“A lot has happened, Bella. You’re too hard on yourself.”
Yes, I know. Cinthia always reminds me how drastically things have changed in my life since I moved to England eight months ago.
“Do you think it could be the panic years – the thirties crisis?” I ask her.
“Of course not. Thirty, flirty and thriving, don’t you remember?”
I laugh. We watched 13 Going on 30 last week as part of a marathon we did on films about time travel. I don’t know why we chose that theme, but it was nice. Every now and then, when we’re both off and don’t feel like going out, we take advantage of our passion for films and spend hours on the sofa. The films we choose are usually romances or comedies, and we have a lot of fun munching on popcorn while chilling in our PJs.
She looks away and bends down to pick Duke up when he jumps on her leg. “My God, this little beast is getting bigger and heavier.”
I agree with a smile, gazing at my dog’s happy expression.
Duke came into our lives by chance. A friend of Cinthia’s, who lives in Brighton, was surprised to discover that his pair of Welsh corgis had bred. Some misunderstanding about castration. As he is against buying and selling animals, he offered one to my friend, asking if she wanted to adopt it. Cinthia didn’t want that responsibility, but I accepted Duke immediately.
“You spoil him.” I point to the two of them. “He’s got used to it.”
“ Oh , but he’s a darling,” Cinthia speaks in a cutesy voice. “Isn’t he, Your Grace?”
Duke wags his tail frantically, and my friend promptly puts him down.
“Seriously, Bella. Apart from writing, what have you been doing all day?”
“I rang my father to see how he was.”
“Has he arrived in Tokyo yet?”
I nod in confirmation. My father, Tadeu Kato, has Japanese heritage. He’s been living in Japan for a while for work and took the opportunity to go to Tokyo to visit his paternal grandfather, the only living relative he has apart from me. He and my mum, Janete Souza, divorced when I was three. He lived in S?o Paulo; she lived in Sorocaba. I also have a younger sister, Laura, from my mum’s second marriage. She lives in Quebec, Canada, with her husband and works for his company. Basically, we’re a family spread all over the world.
“OK, what else?” Cinthia asks me again. I think it’s cute that she’s so concerned about me. At thirty-three, it’s like she’s the big sister I never had.
“I haven’t done anything else,” I reply.
She crosses her arms. Here comes the lecture.
“Go out for a walk. It’ll do you good.”
I look out of the window, seeing the sun shining through the curtains. It really isn’t a bad idea for me to go for a walk; it’s been a few weeks since I’ve been to the Tower Bridge area, and even though it’s busy, I really like it there. I look at the clock. It’s 2pm and it’s November, which means I still have a couple of hours of sunshine.
“Do you want to come along?” I ask, sitting down on the bed.
“I can’t. I have to pack.” Cinthia rolls her eyes.
“Oh, yeah.”
Cinthia is going to spend a month in Paris studying French. She’s excited, especially because her boyfriend will be keeping her company during this time. I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen a photo, and the guy is hot.
“So, things are progressing between you guys?”
She shrugged.
“We’re having fun. I don’t think it’s serious yet.”
“Wow, keeping your cards close to your chest?” I tease.
She denies it, laughing.
“You’re very romantic, I don’t want you to get excited for nothing.”
I roll my eyes, joking around. If there’s one thing I haven’t been in recent months, it’s romantic. It’s kind of hard to be when your heart is being held together with glue and tape.
“I get really excited. How could I not, with a beautiful French man to—”
“Belgian.” Cinthia corrects me. “Paul is Belgian.”
“Oh, fancy.”
“See? One comment and those little eyes are shining,” Cinthia teases me.
Maybe she’s right and I really am an incurable romantic.
“OK, I admit I love romance.”
“I know. You write only that.”
I frown softly. I used to write. Now, it’s a bit difficult.
“You know what?” I sigh because thinking about my writer’s block only makes me more upset. “I’ll do what you suggested. Maybe seeing a few people will really help.” I stand up, looking for my pair of trainers.
“That’s it. And I’m going to get something to eat and start packing up.”
She leaves me alone while I finish putting my trainers on. Duke doesn’t make a point of following us this time, but I look at him anyway.
“Do you want to come along?”
Faced with the silence of Your Grace, who must be the laziest puppy in the UK, I decide not to insist.
“Nice, but your tummy is growing…” I laugh, leaving him behind.
I walk through the living room and stop in front of the coat rack, picking up a yellow woollen scarf that is hanging there, along with my pink coat. Cinthia is sitting on the sofa chewing something and lets out a laugh.
“For God’s sake, woman, it’s not that cold.”
“Yeah. You know, where I come from, we’re not used to cold weather.” I put my coat on, shrugging.
“You Brazilians…” she murmurs good-humouredly, as I check that I have my phone and keys and say goodbye.
I hurry down the stairs, feeling the cold wind as soon as I open the door to the entrance hall. To get to Tower Bridge, I just have to take the DLR, as it’s only fifteen minutes from where I live. It’s a good location, close to Underground lines and several bus stops.
The train isn’t full, probably because of the time of day. As soon as I press the metal button and get on, I sit down in the nearest empty seat. I don’t pick up my phone. Instead, I do the exercise I learnt on a writing course: observing the other passengers and what they’re doing. After all, that’s why I left home, isn’t it? Trying to overcome the block. There’s a gentleman two seats to my right, reading today’s newspaper. His dark skin is almost wrinkle-free, but he has a few grey hairs in his curly mop. Discreetly, I notice him mumbling something to himself as he reads the articles.
I then shift my gaze to the front seat, where a boy, probably under twenty, is fiddling with his phone. On his pale, acne-ridden face, he scratches with his index finger what looks like an attempt at a moustache but looks more like a shadow over his lips, so thin. The kid frowns at the screen, coughing generously without covering his mouth. Ew. That’s enough to make me lose interest and change my focus, and I continue people-watching until the train arrives at Tower Gateway station.
Unlike my neighbourhood, the streets near Tower Bridge are a little busier. As soon as I leave the station, I’m about to cross the road when I see three electric scooters standing on the edge of the pavement. I like to walk; I don’t usually rent them, even though I got my driving licence for that very purpose. But today I feel like using them. As I’m already registered with the app, I use my phone and scan the QR code on one of them. In less than two minutes, I can feel my hair fluttering as I guide the scooter through the streets of London.
Getting out the flat is good for me, I won’t deny that. Just getting out of my tiny flat makes me think more clearly, and this, combined with the imaginary soundtrack I attach to the situation and the magnificent cityscape that London has to offer, can be defined as synonymous with inspiration. I don’t take too long because I want to get back before it gets dark. On the way back, I pass by the Tower of London, stopping at a red traffic light on Tower Bridge. The crossing is clear, but I wait anyway. The green light appears, and I look to my right, just in case. There’s no one coming, so I move on.
I just didn’t expect the thud that was to come, sending me crashing to the ground on top of a strong, warm body.