When there are at least three or four high priority things going on in your life, all of which you could write about in one way or the other for your blog, then it becomes kind of difficult to put that one thought to page. It’s even tougher when you’ve written the first sentence and are secretly hoping the rest of the blog along with its theme, its argument and a punchy conclusion will just present itself on its own from there onward. But it doesn’t look like a thing that will transpire anytime soon.

You hobble then mentally, bump your toe against this idea or that, trying to sharpen your raven claws and bite at the meatiest worry that when written out in a blog will help you be done with the task of sending out the blog for the day. End of the week, end of the day, end of the month (ish). End of the financial year (in India), end of our oil woes (RE ftw), end of the world (fr). These sweet thoughts continue to press on you as you continue to capitulate what will it be finally that your laser-sharp focus will hone itself on.

In the next minute a carousel of faces and places goes through your mind and you’ve abandoned all hope. The mug of green tea sits heaving heavy, judgmental sighs like a placeholder for your mom. Your notebook’s not empty pages stare back at you as you try to find one sensible idea you could flesh out for today’s blog without coming across like a desperate climber. The phone is silent, it doesn’t beep, it never beeps - it’s on flight mode. You silently, proudly prefer it that way. You want to check with your notes app, on the health of your thoughts, if they’re in anyway better than the ones you have inside your head anyway. But you browse through and there are some gleaming shards of impolite conversations left midway there. Better not to prod.

You look out the window, the sun is out — ah yes! It’s the hope and joy and deliriousness that the sun fills you up with that makes you dizzy with confusion like a mad king who doesn’t know what to do with her riches. Upstairs, the landlady is celebrating a work from home Friday when she hardly ever works, mostly moves the furniture around, host friends and lets her boys run around like it’s the peak of summer. Every Friday. Through the year.

The green tea is bitter. As bitter as that extra black pepper sprinkled atop the pasta you had for lunch today. Hand cream! Mmmm yesss..! Perhaps applying some handcream will supply me with the final dose of finesse required to drop the idea of this blog and maybe chop a couple of my fingers and send them to subscribers instead a la Colm from The Banshees of Inisherin (2022).

A conversation with the self:

You could’ve really sent out the blog you’d written about Banshees the day before.

But it’s not related to urbanism or sustainability or cities in any way.

Do you think this is?

Yes, maybe if I very smartly bring that twist in towards the end about how a city can really make you think this way or that!

Good luck!

My second self has checked out. Now it’s just me and this unblank page, the muffled voices of my landlady, her friends and children from upstairs and the mid-afternoon tolls of the church bells from across the football field.

Truth is I have a roster of ideas lined up, three or maybe five blogs written, formatted and ready to be sent out, but am highly demotivated and almost scared/jittery about the fact that each time I hit send I lose anywhere between 2-5 subscribers. Ok, it doesn’t happen every time, but maybe 2 out of 5 times it does. And given the fact that my blog is no longer on that trendy, algo friendly, nauseatingly superfluous blog site — there aren’t that many new subscribers.

Did I always write for subscribers?

This puts me in fright that perhaps I should be careful and calculated about my blogs and only perhaps strategically write about things that are trendy, click-baity, or best — rage-baity. But then the other me (yes, she’s back) wants to whine about the “joy of writing” and how it lies in writing about anything that I want to, because this is my own blog after all.

As of now this blog doesn’t even have a title, and I’m in half a mind to send it out as it is.

Last night and early this morn I spent half and half an hour listening to four literary goddesses, geniuses, really, mothers, on a panel talk about their respective creative process, their ideas, the things they write about or not. Four of my favourite writers on one panel! The writerly gods put that thing together, I’m guessing. I might’ve cried a little bit when I found it and that might’ve broken my brain perhaps. Or perhaps it was the joy of seeing them together in conversation with one another that has brought me to this mad-king-delirousness. What a special, delicious conversation to have found on youtube, of all places.

Unrelatedly here are some thoughts I’ve had about winter depression here in the Nordics and what happens when people suffer from it:

• We/they learn to lock a part of themselves inside, and then conveniently eliminate it once the light comes back.

• We conveniently light up indoor spaces and absolutely abandon any outdoor love or living that isn’t related to physical fitness. (winter mys, hygge, etc., is all a concept of indoor light)

• Swedish people are introverted and don’t necessarily open up much despite seasons because… Well, I’ve no idea. But winters become a ruse to excuse themselves from any social mixing because of oh “its so dark and cold” or any such reasons. And understandably so.

• We avoid eye contact in public but greet each other so cheerfully when we meet that it almost feels like we’re play-acting. Diabolical, too, but mostly very fake.

• We run away with our little known cohorts of friends, family to ski or to the winter houses to nestle in and be cosy, further cutting off from rest of the social world.

• We don’t drink in public, like other cold countries do. No drinking at Christmas Markets, or beers by the plaza. Instead we hole up indoors and drown out them winter blues in bottles of glogg (glüh wine but make it ten times stronger and sweeter).

• We go hunting!

1200+ words written. Still no shape or form to it. My insides are revolting, a patina of vomit begins to cloud my senses as I consider sending this blog out in its current inane shape. I’ll lose another, minimum 5 subscribers, but then at least I’d have written something to show for it. If every blog is a misfire, every idea doomed to fail then why not catalogue my failures here, one blog at a time!

Despite the bile, here goes it this. This little thing of a blog. I’m sorry to all my blogging heroes: the most recent, surprising amongst them Jeff Hiller (!!!), Helena Fitzgerald, Elif Batuman (I can actually read some of her blogs mentally right now and mine is deeply unserious), Addison Del Mastro, and many more. I hope you will forgive me and that my mother will be happy with at least this one decision I’ve managed to take in my life!