for the love of words.

today i helped my friend’s 11 year old daughter with her homework. she was asked to write a descriptive paragraph on the subject “arrival at midnight”.  while her spelling, just like mine, isn’t the greatest she uses the best words and descriptions. she wrote her paragraph about a girl who comes home to find the house in the dark and a banging sound that scares her. she realizes that it is only a tree branch against the window, but still cannot turn on the lights and gets scared.  i added my two cents and so the girl ends up running out of her house to find her electrician and fire him, because how useless is he?

yes, i know, it doesn’t make much sense and i blame the heat, but we had such a laugh and were quite chuffed with our “clever” ending to the story.

it reminded me of how much i actually love words. lately i have had little joy with them. i haven’t read much and didn’t finish the books i started, which always makes a bit sad. i have written even less and it feels like a constant looming task. i even thought of giving my little blog a break for a while. i just feel lazy and so disconnected to words lately – surely it shouldn’t be that much work to write?

but doing this homework with her, searching for round descriptions and pretty words, coming up with a storyline even just for a paragraph, and then ending it with absurdity and giggles – it felt amazing. it reminded me why i love words and why i love writing and that it is nothing to be scared of, not something i have to do, but something to be enjoyed and savoured.
i was asked last week for my recipe against writer’s block and i really couldn’t think of anything smart to add to the discussion except to say: just write. sounds simple enough and like a paradox at the same time. but really to write anything helps me – a grocery list, a to-do list, a sentence with words that all start with A, a paragraph of a little girl who fires her electrician…
when i can get myself to write anything at all, it usually starts to flow and i get reminded that words are my most beloved friends.

on the art of writing and eating haribo smurfes.

my friend julia told me on skype the other day that i was very funny after i made some sort of clever remark and she burst out laughing. that was nice to hear. i trust her judgment above most; definitely more than my own and lately i have not been feeling very funny. i have not been feeling very ... anything at all really. most days i would prefer to stay in bed and once i am out of bed i would prefer to be back inside or at least have a blanket with me that i can pull over my head. not that there is a good reason for it, because everything is just freakin' fine.

the past month has been rough. while my dad is recovering nicely and i managed to get from feeling freaked out and completely overwhelmed to pretty normal, i now struggle to get from feeling okay to feeling excited. excited about what? well, to tell you the truth i am not picky at the moment, i would like to feel excited about anything really.

yesterday was the first day i was getting somewhat excited about writing again. i didn't exactly have a writer's block, but i was definitely unenthusiastic about writing the last few weeks. but now i had to get down and dirty as i had some assignments long overdue for the travelettes. i found my excitement while writing about the khmer rouge and the killing fields and while that is undoubtedly a bit weird to get excited about, i was happy to have the mojo back. and though it may sound even weirder, i think i wrote one of my best stories yet.

now i feel like all i want to do is write. funny stories, sad stories, fragmented words, coherent dreams. okay, well i don't think i ever had a coherent dream in my life, but you know what i mean. i write right now after too much rosé, i think about sentence structure in the shower, and i felt happiest today when i wrote a little blog post for my company in german. yes, me, happy to write in german! i know it is unheard of, but seeing my fingers fly over a keyboard is the only thing that has brought me some level of positive emotion lately.

i never really told anyone but i was supposed to do nanowrimo in november. that is basically an online program with an online community that anybody can sign up for who has the plan to write a book.

i hate to admit it, but yes, i am one of these bloggers - i want to write a book. there is a handful of people who read all my stories and who keep on telling me that i should write a book. complain to them, but for some silly reason i eventually started to believe it. yeah...i'm a sucker. the only thing that has kept me so far is my own lack of discipline and nothing else. so i thought nanowrimo was the perfect outline to help me get organized and commit to writing 50.000 words in november come rain or shine. well my november came with my dad almost dying and that made me less productive than sunshine and no wind on a saturday afternoon.

i already had had a post planned about my workstation at home. then i adapted and prepared a post showing you my newfound workstation which was a fancy desk at my radisson hotel room. but i realized that all i could manage to do was to eat wiener schnitzel from room service and haribo smurfes and of course wash both down with copious amounts of wine while watching gute zeiten, schlechte zeiten. all i wrote in two weeks was text messages to my sister, my brother, and my three best friends and sometimes even these were copied and pasted.
i wasn't able to do anything else and i felt bad for it. i felt worse for it, because i had signed up and tried and realized i couldn't cope. maybe some people can find an input, an inspiration in absolute misery. i think it would actually be quite great. but that wasn't me. my book wants to be funny and witty and clever. it will need the right kind of light inspiration. seeing as my fingers are flying right now, maybe it needs to be wine fueled, maybe it needs cape town sunshine, and wind that drives me a bit mad.
i am actually not sure yet. but i know it will come when the time is right. till then i will enjoy eating smurfes and just be happy that my dad and i both coped, even when there is no funny story to prove it.

picture perfect.

Before I even start this post I want to say – all is good. I am not complaining, I am not sad, I am not annoyed...I am just a bit exhausted from my day and I am writing to reflect why that is.

Today I got up “early” (I won't tell you what that means for me, because all of you will hate me) the second day in the row as we had a company photo shoot which got postponed from yesterday when I got up “early” the first time around. Yes, we are the people who are always behind the lens, but today it was our turn to shine for our new website. Meh.

I absolutely hate having my picture taken. When I was sixteen my brother, the professional and very awesome and talented photographer, put me in front of a big light and agreed to take my passport picture. Oh the honor and the joy! Finally a passport picture that would show my real beauty and get me upgrades and make anybody who would see it instantly fall in love with me. Or so I thought. Well lit or not, I hated the picture and told my brother as much. It was never intended as a reflection on his skill, but always about my face, so I thought he should have responded in kind. Call it an older brother phenomenon, but he only said “well, I can only be as good as the model”.

Ever since I have refused to be in front of a camera unless being fed copious amount of drinks first. Or have someone with photoshop skills on hand. Or have someone who loves me direct my chin lovingly into an angle that makes it disappear. Preferably all of the above at once.

When people tell me how photogenic I am I feel insulted. To me they just called me ugly, because if that’s how I really look like live, oh boy… Guys, I am not being self-deprecating because most days I look at myself in the mirror I am perfectly fine with the view. It is really the reflection in pictures that I don't enjoy nor do I think it is a fair representation of me.

So you can imagine how not excited I was having to wake up early, again, and have my picture taken. By the way I should add that a guy, who I was once madly in love with and who broke my heart and who himself is still to my now unloving eye utterly gorgeous, was our photographer. Now can you please feel a bit sorry for me?

But yes I managed. I honestly didn't care about the pictures too much. I was so worried about my double chin showing up that I forgot my eyes really wrinkle when I smile a lot. Fuck.

So tonight I just feel exhausted, but I don't I don't want to whine. Life is utterly good to me right now and just sitting here right now I remember a post I read thismorning. Which asked us to list things we love about ourselves. I replied and wrote: I love the reflection of my body in a Bikram class. I wear shorts that are probably too short and too tight for my body type, but I can move in them. And so I look at this body of mine that is moving and that can do things, that is breathing and that is strong and healthy. That body of mine that is dripping sweat and that face of mine that is read and that hair – let's just say it is worse than usual - but I see all of it and I do feel beautiful.

And now while I'm lying in bed I look over at my little 'wall' and there is this one picture of my friend Sam and myself. He hugs me and kisses my forehead. The whole pictures, at least me in it, is so far from perfect and I could take it apart for you, yet all I see is my smile, my friend who loves me and my beautiful Lanvin dress.

And then I remember a conversation I had a long time ago with a friend in New York who asked me if it wasn't depressing to work with beautiful models all the time. But mainly I still remember my reply: no, if I had the choice I'd always rather be the stylist than the model. At least as stylist I get to create and do and think and not just stand there and have someone dress me. - I really want to add here that I have met many amazing women over the years, models, who work hard and are beautiful and smart and funny. Why would someone not use her strong suits whether it be an affinity for science, a love for words, or a great bone structure to make a living or a career? I have also learned that it doesn't matter how beautiful someone is to the rest of the world, they can still feel like an ugly duckling on the inside - However the truth is there are makers and doers and dreamers in this world and models are usually the ones being used as a canvas to reflect these people's work. And so when it comes to this I still always rather be a maker, a doer, and a dreamer than a beautiful canvas. In my case I rather create a lasting impression with my words than with my face. Even though that face of mine is a great one.

Part Einstein, part Lion Pose. 

the right shoes for travelling the world.

so today i have some exciting news and a champagne headache.

i'm going to be a contributor for travelettes.

that's the exciting news and you just don’t see me shrieking because of the headache. however i  am shrieking  and jumping up and down on the inside.

travelettes is a travel blog with a group of awesome girls who go out into the world and prove that backpacking in heels is not a contradiction. i like that premise and so i sent them an application and some stories. katja, the founder of the travelettes apparently liked my application letter so much that she already posted it on the blog and put my already fragile head into a slight overdrive.

reading important mail on my phone while still in bed with one eye closed is tricky business. i still gathered though that she really seemed to like my writing and since she is neither my mother nor am i paying her to say that, i was genuinely touched and happy and proud.

we may call a blog an online diary, but in the end we write to get read, don't we? a story told needs an audience. it's a bit like that thought experiment "if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" if we write and nobody reads it, does it matter that we write? we think that our words matter in one way or another and if someone else reads them it affirms this notion. 

at least that it is one of the main reasons why i write. i like writing, but i do write to be read. having someone tell me that they like what i write makes me happy, makes me want to write more, makes me want to write better, makes me even write in bed on sunday with a headache and it makes me grin silly.

now here is a little problem i have with this whole excitement though. i think i may have lied by omission in my application.

i don't wear heels and i certainly don't travel in them.

ups.

i dare say, i get shoes.  my taste in shoes is impeccable. i may not have many for women’s standards, but the ones i have are really, really good.  i have prada, dries van noten, vintage charles jourdan, pierre hardy, and repetto. however none of them have more than 2-inch heels. i hate to admit it, but i cannot walk in heels. it's not the pain, the pain usually one can drink away, but i simply cannot walk without looking odd and stumbling, sometimes i even add a full-on fall and/or ankle sprain. i don’t do it to myself when i go to work so why would i do it to myself when i go on vacation?

but now you probably wonder if i don't i want to be fancy sometimes and need shoes to go with it? the truth is, i don't think i am a very fancy person at heart. yes, i am sitting here with a champagne hangover but i also spilled a lot of said champagne very un-fancily all over my dress last night. truthfully as a girl it's usually enough to be fancy on top, most people don't care about the fanciness of your shoes. which i guess is a bit sad for the shoes, but also a reality of the world outside of fashion. years ago an ex visited me in new york before christmas. the visit didn't go very well so i was already in an unpleasant mood when our last evening finally came along. we had reservations at the rivercafe, the one truly fancy old school place where they still make men wear ties and stuff. i had already packed most of my wardrobe as i was leaving the next day and left with a choice of wearing strappy summer sandals or sneakers. they were light blue pumas and awesome as far as sneakers go, but obviously an odd choice for the rivercafe. since we were having a snow storm i didn't care and chose them over summer sandals. the ex wouldn't stop moaning and complaining about how they wouldn't let us in due to my shoe choice. he was right in that we didn't get in. however it was due to his lack of tie. because unlike they make it seem in the movies, restaurants like that don't keep a collection of spare clip-ons, they just give your table to some other dude who came without a reservation but wearing a tie.

so i’d say i am more cool (can i say that about myself without sounding like a complete ass?) than fancy and therefore my preferred choice of travel shoes have been my old vintage motorcycle boots. what can i say, unlike heels, they were actually made for walking. i have walked in them to fashion weeks in paris and new york, they have been to the vatican and the dome in milan, they have slept in five star resort in st. barth’s, park city and miami, and have ridden with me on a basotho pony in the lesotho highlands. they have lived by far a more exciting life than any heel that i ever bought, failed to walk in and which subsequently died alone and unworn in my closet.

having explained all of that, dear travelettes, i hope you won’t mind that i will therefore adhere to the credo of backpacking* suitcase-wheeling in vintage motorcycle boots.

*i did admit that i don’t even own a backpack and they didn’t seem to think that was a problem.

Non-starving art.

I haven’t been writing much lately and I have to blame the heat amongst other distractions. Yesterday I was thinking about it though and realized maybe one really needs to be a starving artist in order to get any writing done, hot or cold. I’m not starving which is why I’m not writing. I don’t need to write in order not to starve so why bother? Not that I would ever consider myself an artist, but writing can be considered an art, and here I am not writing because I am not starving. Ponder upon that for a moment.
In fact I used the new couple's night apart to make myself delicious prawn pasta. Ian, who in case you haven't guessed is the new boy on the block and according to Thekla I mustn't call him any nicknames, doesn’t like prawns. I find this so incredible that it actually makes me want to stomp my foot on the ground and shout “How can anyone not like prawns, Silly?” I don't, because I am still too flattered by his apparent love of me cooking anything but prawns that I don't want to go there quite yet.
So there with my huge plate of pasta, I, the non-starving artist, had this epiphany that art can never be fed by real food. It is just too distracting. If I have food to eat I will not only eat it and thus waste time I could spend on writing but also watch a movie while I eat thus wasting more time not writing.

Whenever I fantasize that the key to successful writing is probably just getting away, I already fail in the 'planning in my head stages. I can envision myself under an olive tree somewhere in Spain or France. Close to the ocean with a little simple white cottage which has the bare necessities: a bed, a desk, and … well, a kitchen. I wonder how difficult it would be to make my own olive oil. Or could I, the big city girl, ever learn to catch a fish? Then again I actually don't like fish all this much, but maybe when caught myself and prepared with my homemade olive oil it would taste totally different? Then there is the wine, which is of course a reason itself to go to Spain or France or in fact Italy would be great as well. Wine will help my art. To a certain degree. I have known myself to cross the line. The line is reached when each word has to be rewritten twice because my fingers and brain don't want to talk to each other anymore.
My other writing scenario pictures myself in New York. In this little cafe down by Houston Street where they had this amazing Salad Nicoise. Or at Caracas with some arepas and Coronas. Though maybe that might be too noisy and again with the alcohol. Coffee rather. But not Starbucks that's for sure, their coffee just sucks and though Dean & Deluca has the best scones, their table settings are basically non-existent.
See my dilemma? Getting away is even more exiting in terms of food than staying at home where I only have to deal with healthy pre-yoga snacks or dinners to impress the new boyfriend. Don’t even get me started on road trips. I don’t think I would write a single word if my life depended on it. Road trips make my heart and stomach race.
So be happy to read what you are reading right now as I will be off to plan lunch soon while wondering: who has time to write if not an artist who is truly starving or someone who doesn't care about food? These weird creatures apparently do exist. I only know one – my sister in law who as a poor fashion design student in Rome would rather spend her food money on Prada shoes and thus starve. Though keeping in mind that Prada shoes vs. food is a whole different ballgame compared to writing vs. food. A discussion I don’t want to get into as the Prada shoes in my closet are already starting to giggle and I don’t want to upset the pasta in my pantry.