myShe knows immediately that she should never have done this. She inserts the first turn of the key into the lock of the chalet. Immediately, in her own way, she feels the mountain panorama that spreads out masterfully in front of the clear wooden balcony. A way so different from the first time. When they opened the door of this chalet chosen in two minutes on the Internet because they were fed up with searching for weeks for the ideal place to write their books, they couldn’t believe it.
The mountain in front of them sent shivers of delight down their spines, and the hairs on their forearms danced like little flames of joy. Every day you are a little more surprised by this screensaver landscape. The mountain pastures, shaped like waves of chlorophyll, the pastures that looked like Flemish paintings when the sun went down and the sheep grazed, the small forests of dense thorns that stood up like virgin islands.
There, alone before her, the magical, pastoral world has evaporated and metamorphosed into a wall of grey stone, crushing and intractable. Without it, it will be difficult. She leaves her suitcases in the downstairs bedroom, the one overlooking the stables. She notices that there are still many flies and breathes a little when she opens the window. She returns to the living room and steps into her own vertigo, passing through the black river that seems to flow through the floor.
Endless minutes
After a shitty first night, she pretends and resumes her rhythm, the same schedules, the same rituals. We don’t change anything. She has to return her book in two months. At ten thousand signs a day, if she builds her days, as happens to her, she will succeed. She wakes up at 7:30, has her first coffee on the balcony, writes her diary and prepares for the reward walk at the end of the afternoon. 8:30 am, in her chair. Fucked up for five hours of writing, with a lunch break at 11 am and that’s it. Non-negotiable.
For the newspaper café on the balcony it works perfectly, but when she sits down in her chair and opens her computer at the appointed time, nothing. Endless minutes wondering why she would do such a thing. She will never get there. Every time it is the same. Although she is on her sixth book, with each book she returns to the zero point of know-how, ignorant, trapped in an obsessive mush, producing nothing, having to deal with her own mediocrity, being perpetually disappointed in herself – even, every morning; not a life.
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