Having lived in one place until I was an adult meant that, as a teenager, I had yet to experience home as an abstract term. It was a literal thing, nestled in the hills of the Santa Monica Mountains. Though I traveled quite a bit as a child, I never found that indescribable feeling I now know as harmony — that feeling of being connected to a city without knowing how or why. It wasn’t until I moved to San Francisco when I was eighteen that I experienced the sheer joy of falling in love with a place. Sometimes I tell myself that perhaps it was because I was on my own for the first time, or because I’d found the quintessential group of friends. But I know deep down that the “City by the Bay” captured my heart in more ways than just perfect timing and quality people — it was my home, and I still very much consider it that. But soon after moving to San Francisco, I inexplicably found myself at home again… in London.

Let me add that I’ve had the great fortune of traveling to a wide variety of cities: Lima, Amsterdam, Jerusalem, Prague, Tel Aviv, Paris, Krakow, Copenhagen, and Venice, to name a few. All of these places were wonderful in their own way. However, upon arrival to each of these cities, I did not feel that same heart-stopping, adrenaline-inducing, starry-eyed wonder that I felt my first day in San Francisco or London. It was almost painful, this feeling of connectivity to a certain place, almost — dare I say — déjà vu (side note: I do believe in reincarnation, so I suppose it’s entirely possible that I have been to these places in a past life). When someone describes déjà vu to me, I immediately think of my first days in those two cities. Is it possible, then, to find home in a place you’ve never physically been before? The soul is capable of many things — reincarnation being one of them — so maybe that’s what this feeling, this kinship towards a geographical location, is. What is it about a place that envelops you so wholly — grounds you so completely — in its gritty, unfamiliar arms?

When I studied abroad, I’d chosen London as a destination without ever having traveled there. Whenever people asked why, I always replied that I’d been strangely drawn to London. It had been a sudden love affair. I wasn’t expecting to love everything about it, but I had. And not only that: I felt as though I was home. Which, having never been there before, was hard to explain to myself, let alone other people. London drew me in and never let go. Even now, thinking of the foggy parks, the cobblestoned streets, the smoke billowing from chimneys in the winter, the wild geese, the smell of diesel — it brings forth a very emotional nostalgia for a place that I called home for four months, a place I still consider one of my homes. I belonged, truly belonged, in London. I haven’t felt that same sense of belonging since I left.

Flying into London last summer after having been away for two years brought tears to my eyes. Joyful, exuberant tears. The man next to me on the plane noticed. He asked me if I was returning home. My answer? Something like that. London, a place I’ve been four whole times, was my city. Can you explain that? I can’t. Driving up the 101 Freeway into San Francisco, glimpsing the well-known cityscape, navigating the streets so familiar that I could drive them with my eyes closed: emotional, heart-warming, my home. I am home. That’s what I tell myself upon arrival to both of these cities. I am home, I am home, I am home.

Why doesn’t Los Angeles feel like home any more? It physically is; it’s where I grew up, where my parents still live in the house I grew up in. It’s important to note that I love it here. The Los Angeles I live in now is entirely different than the city I grew up in. Maybe it’s just that. I am evolved now, and I have given my heart to other cities, and there is no room left for my hometown. I have so much love for these other cities that there is nothing left to give Los Angeles other than the half-hearted nod that I give to everyone who asks if I like living here. Yes, I do like living here. Sometimes I think I might love it here. Los Angeles is like a familiar friend: comforting, routine, and complacent. Given my history, I should have room within me to accept it as my home, a label I’ve given to two other cities. And maybe one day I will think of it as such. But for now, I can keep dreaming of returning home — to my heart— in San Francisco and London. I left a piece of myself in each of those cities. I won’t feel whole until I go back.

*A blog post I wrote for La Guera Viajera. 

I wove my way through a crowd of people and sat down on the curb beneath a row house, sliding as close as I could physically get to the building. I made sure to stick my head as far back as possible to avoid the torrential downpour coming from above. There was about a foot of overhang from the roof. Finally, some relief. My face might stay dry, but my legs would sit unmoving, wet, taking the brunt of the storm. In this section of the neighborhood, it was either take shelter here, or stand under a street food tarp with cooks harassing me to buy their overpriced food.

I was ankle deep in water at the Notting Hill Carnival in London, also known as the largest festival in Europe. What had started in 1964 as a celebration for the London-based Afro-Caribbean population to celebrate their heritage, has since turned in to a massive, communal celebration for all who wish to show solidarity between all cultures and ethnicities. I was excited to try the infamous Caribbean food (being a huge foodie), and I’d heard good things about the colorful floats in the parade, but as fate would have it, I would only catch the tail end of the parade due to the rainstorm.

I'd forgotten my umbrella, which was turning out to be much more of an inconvenience than I’d previously reckoned. It's just water, you'll be fine. That was my Southern-California-girl mentality shining through, because in Southern California, it rains delicately, like butterflies fluttering against your windshield. In England, it rains like an angry, old, blustering dragon.

Don’t get me wrong. I do love a good rain, and California is in the middle of a devastating drought, so water falling free from the sky is welcome any time in my eyes. However, with no umbrella and only a pair of thin canvas shoes to shield my wet feet, I felt particularly annoyed at myself for being so unprepared.

After a few minutes, the rain slowed enough for me to feel as though I wouldn’t be fighting gravity in order to keep walking forward. My full bladder pounded against my lower abdomen. Those 3 cappuccinos I’d had earlier were taunting me, here, in the middle of a storm, with no bathroom in sight. I scanned the street, and saw a long line forming outside of a port-a-potty.

When I’d arrived at the carnival an hour earlier, I’d been stunned at the dismal amount of people I saw on the street. I just figured the rain deterred a good portion of the normal carnival population. However, the bathroom line suggested anyone and everyone to ever exist were waiting for a toilet at that exact moment.

Just as I'd given in to the notion that I would stand and wait for a port-a-potty, and just as rain water started to creep through my jacket (and my subsequent 3 layers underneath), I saw a very small sign (”Toilet, downstairs”) with an arrow pointing towards cement steps that led into what I could only imagine was a basement. I looked around and no one was in line, from what I could see from street level. Perhaps there was a reason no one was standing in line. It seemed too good to be true.

As I slowly followed the cement steps downward and went underground, I gleefully noticed an open door and a line of a total of ONE person in front of me. The bathroom was the first room on the right in the hallway; there were arrows leading the way. I smelled the orange-blossom-bergamot of Earl Grey, thinking someone must be drinking tea.

A young woman sat at a small table immediately to my right, with a ‘£1 donation’ sign and a mason jar. "Tea or coffee?"

I slipped my frozen hand into my wet purse and extracted enough change to make one pound. 

”Excuse me?" Was she talking to me? I looked around.

"Would you like coffee or tea?" She looked at me and tapped her foot impatiently, like she'd been here all day. “Sorry to snap. I just want to have it ready for you when you’re done with the toilet.”

"I'll have tea, please. Thank you."

Someone came out of the bathroom and a man from deep within one of the other rooms in the house rushed in, exclaiming he needed to refill the toilet paper container before I went in. Oh, so this was someone’s house. It didn’t really look like a house. It was underground, and there were no visible windows. But as my eyes scanned the hallways, I noticed frames with family pictures in them. Dog toys were scattered all around the beige carpet.

"Robert! One tea!" The woman yelled, then turning to me. "After you're done with the loo, you can go right, down the hall, into the kitchen. We have a few things to nosh on and your tea will be waiting. Feel free to stay as long as you'd like. We know it's miserable out there."

I thanked her and went to the bathroom. Afterwards, I went down the hall to the kitchen, and drank my hot tea. It warmed my hands, and I appreciated that the world consisted of people like this couple who opened up their home to carnival strangers, especially those of us who needed to use the bathroom and warm up.

As I got to know Robert and Nora (the impatient one who actually turned out to be wonderful), I learned that the couple were recently married, that they rent the bottom level of this house, that they have a total of one window, four small dogs, and one baby on the way. Before I left, they even let me borrow an old, flimsy umbrella someone had left at their house months ago. Apparently, I was the only person at the carnival that day to forget my umbrella.

As I walked back into the rain, now shielded by a thin piece of plastic and stomach full of hot tea and pastries, I was ready to try that overpriced beer and food. People drunkenly stumbled around me and smiled, for no good reason other than we were here, in this together, and we were making the best of it. I approached a food stand and the bearded man behind the big wok of cooked cabbage looked me over, taking in my appearance. “For you, my lady, it’s free.”

I missed most of the parade (and a lot of floats had ended early due to the weather). But I ended up staying for another four hours, cold and wet, but pretty blissfully happy. Thanks to the kindness of some strangers, both the ones I encountered on the street, the food vendors, and the couple with the delightful little escape from the rain underneath the very street I stood on, my time at the carnival had been unexpected. But more importantly, my faith in humanity had been completely restored.

When I started NaNoWriMo on November 1st, I didn't have an outline, but I knew the story I wanted to write. The first couple of days were easy, but suddenly, it took a strange twist, and by day 10, I was pretty sure I was 22,000 words into my first romance novel. It goes without saying that obviously, if the characters are flushed out well, that they have minds of their own, which is exactly how I can describe what happened here. I went with it, eagerly awaiting what they would do next, or where they would go. I wasn't in control anymore. I realize that sounds like a crazy person talking, but I swear, November was one giant, prolonged, out-of-body experience.

This character named Charlotte Bloom took over, and I barely ate or slept until she was done. I found myself copiously typing detailed emails to myself midday at work on several occasions, turning down requests for drinks with friends to sit at home and write, and pretty much ignoring my fiancé for 30 days straight (sorry, Peter). This hugely contrasted my first book, which I wrote over a period of 2.5 years. This was an all-out obsession.

I decided on the last week of NaNoWriMo that I would turn this into three books, instead of one. There was more to tell, and I wasn't nearly finished with the characters. Or... the characters weren't nearly done with me. I haven't decided which is more true. I've created detailed outlines for the each of the next two books. Though these books may not win me any Nobel Prizes (or even sell well, I have no idea), there's a story here that deserves to be told. Yes, it's romance, and yes, it gets a bit smutty at times. If I'm being honest, those are the most entertaining scenes to write. ;)

I bought a few stock photos, did some (very) light designing in Photoshop, and voila! The covers are done (for now). I'm not planning on publishing these traditionally, but rather, via Amazon Kindle. If all goes well, I'll have the first book in the series up in January. The other two, I hope to publish sometime in the Spring/Summer. That means... instead of being done with Nano, I am about to embark on two months (or more!) of solid writing. Wish me luck!

Where the magic happens. And the candy eating.

If I talked to you anytime in October, you probably heard from me, "I'm starting my second novel on November 1st! I am so excited!" I might've done a little dance. I probably brushed off your question about how hard I thought it would be, and instead I probably told you that I. Was. Prepared.

I've broken down the first fourteen days of Nano for you below.

Day 1: I've got this. Type type type. Well, that was sooooo easy. It only took an hour to write 2,333 words (my goal being 70,000, not 50,000 like a normal human being). Pssshh, this is easy.

Day 2: Hmmm... Ok, I could go this way with the story instead. Let's see. Type type type. WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST WRITE. 

Day 3: I have to write this quickly. I have 15 people coming over in a couple of hours for our engagement party. Let me just drink some more coffee. Type type type. More candy. This is good, I am doing so good. 

Day 4: I'm on a roll! 2,333 words down in 54 minutes! BOOM!

Day 5: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck this. I can't write today. I am too creatively drained. Also, I am sick.

Day 6: NOW I HAVE TO DOUBLE MY WORD COUNT TODAY. WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF. Type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type type.

Day 7: I love everyone! Life is great. My story is really coming along, I hit the 15K marker! My friends are so supportive. I am particularly emotional today. I love you guys.

Day 8: I hate myself right now. Why did I get myself into this? I will never finish. I am a failed author already. My novel sucks. What is the point of life?

Day 9: Feelin' gooooood today! Let's DO this! I am a writing champion. No one has ever written this much before.

Day 10: Fuck it. I can't write today. My brain is mush.

Day 11: OMG I HAVE TO WRITE 7,000 WORDS TODAY.

Day 12: I just wrote 7,128 words yesterday. I cannot possibly write another word. Maybe I'll just write 1,000 words today. It'll be a light day. Also, I'm pretty sure I'm developing tendonitis.

Day 13: I'm all caught up, and I hit 30,000 words today! I AM THE QUEEN OF EVERYTHING. I CAN CONQUER ANYTHING.

Day 14: My cats are the best. I couldn't do this without them.

I've never been able to explain or figure out why I am so drawn to the desert. For one, I hate the sun. No, really, I hate it. If you know me at all, I am always hiding under a hat, in the shade, or complaining about why an event "would be held midday, out in the sun, like they want us to get skin cancer, those bastards." If I'm not doused in SPF 50, I get antsy in the sun.

Yet, somehow, we make our way to the Mojave Desert at least twice a year, even in July, when these pictures were taken. 115 degrees? In Joshua Tree? Sounds fun! (Note: we went hiking. We drank a lot of water and put on a lot of sunscreen. We had fun. In the heat!)

A friend of mine, who is very into astrology, once told me that my star chart (how the stars and planets were alligned when and where I was born) described me as a desert person. Apparently my soul thrives in desert climates. My father also loves the desert (morbidly, he has asked me in the past to abandon him in the desert "when his time comes." Pretty sure that is second-degree murder, but OK, Dad.)

I was born in the desert. So, I guess it's in my blood. I can't explain it. I can only enjoy it.

Let NaNoWriMo 2014 commence! 

This is the first year that I am participating in National Novel Writing Month. I am starting my second novel in the midst of hard-editing my first novel, and to top it off, I decided to go for a 70,000 word goal instead of a 50,000 word goal. I might be crazy. Oh, and did I mention I don't have an official outline? I am probably the least prepared writer ever. I hope to go into more detail about my writing process (what works for me, what doesn't, etc.) soon, in a future post. Wish me luck!

I've been a reading fiend lately, devouring at least two books a week. I've always been an avid reader, but when faced with writer's block, my reading becomes a priority and soon enough, I have my very own story to tell, sometimes inspired by what I read, and sometimes inspired by only the mindless, ficticious dreamland I'm constantly in while reading. It doesn't always happen this way. But lately, with real, actual, adult writing assignments due, it helps to get lost in another story for awhile. Sometimes, our minds need a break from creating. Sometimes, our minds need that empty space to fill with words, sentences, and plots of others' creations, in order to move forward in our own endeavors.