Uneventful Events

Someone said that, in order to write, you need to want to write more than you need to have something to write about. At first, I was amazed by that simple premise, and so decided I would write a novel. You see, there: I want to write.

But, alas, that premise was all too simple to begin with. For, although you need to want it first of all, THEN you need to proceed to have something to write about. It’s not just a matter of wanting it and then finding it done the next day on your desktop. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for about 15 minutes (rocked to the sound of the washing machine, with a kitchen sink filled to the rim with dirty dishes laughing at me) and I have no idea what I want to Blog about.

I remember living in Augusta, where every day was a new day. Of course, some better than others. I always woke up asking myself, “What am I doing here?” I never had that question answered. But there was always a new boyfriend (ah, the joys of the American Military…), or a new professor, or a new student in the Writing Center or a new article submission for The Bell Ringer or the Phoenix. There was always something happening with Monika, or Pearl, or Nadja, or Hitchcock. There was always something happening. Then there was the whole incident with 9-11, then my father, then my graduation, then Thailand—

I remember living in Thailand, where every single day was an adventure. And I’m not over-doing it. It was. Taking the bus was an adventure (I remember one day arguing that I should pay fifty and not fifteen Baht for the ride… the poor driver was completely confused), ordering food was an adventure (krapaw-moo-grop, nung Gai was boring for every day), conversing with the housekeeper dude was an adventure, traveling around with Tomoko to undiscovered and forbidden places…

I remember living in Bogotá, where the nothing-happens status quo began to set in. I got up, went to work, got home, slept, then I got up, went to work, got home, slept—rinse and repeat until three years go by. Of course stuff did happen: I met Honey, which completely changed my life. My “sleeping” cycle then included a +1 clause. Sometimes. But our lives were normal, charming and normal. Our lives were enough. Now, I am not complaining about enoughness. Sometimes enough is quite nice. Sometimes normal is nice. But sometimes normal becomes boring. And it’s weird, because you can be completely happy with what you have, but want more. More what?, you may ask.

But you don’t know.

Now I live in Kiel. At first, things happened. Oh, did they happen. I was hospitalized, I underwent a major operation (well, ok, it was not really major, but it was my first one ever), I started learning a new language, we moved to a new house, we had the bomb incident… Things do happen, but they are a little uncathartic. (Is that a word?) They are, well, uneventful.

I had pain. I was operated. I was cured. Nothing happened.

I moved to a new country. I learned their language. I adapted. Nothing happened.

I (we) wanted a bigger apartment. We moved. We settled in. Nothing happened.

They found a bomb under my apartment building. They took it out. Nothing happened.

You see? Everything is so German here: they are so prepared for everything, so ready to face every possible problem or any imaginable event, that nothing happens.

The other day, I was walking around Wellingdorf with a friend, and we entered a building, hoping for something to happen. I don’t know: A guy asking for our IDs, someone kicking us out, discovering some kind of underground, illegal edification… but no. We went in, looked around (it was a campus-like restaurant; Mensa, they call it here), and left. Nothing happened.

Maybe that’s why I can’t write—because I can’t think of anything to happen in my story.

When something happens, everything is more exciting.

Like, when I used to ride my bike (when the weather was above 0°C), things used to happen all the time: it rained, or the wind blew too hard, or I fell. Ah, those were the good days. Now I take the bus…

Maybe when we start using La Golondrina more often, more things will happen.

But what’s weird about this all, is that I am so happy. So happy with nothing happening. My life is normal, it is predictable and scheduled. I love that. I love that so much. We have plans, we have agendas that we follow. Precision. Timeliness. Exactness. My iPhone beeps or rings to inform me that I should shower; or that it is time to read; or that I need to do some thing or another. I cannot begin to express how much I am pleased with the seemingly boring life that I live. But it’s not at all boring. I myself am the one preventing things from happening. When everything is so precisely scheduled, there is no space (and no time) for something to happen.

Silly idea, something happening. Ha.

Maybe I will take a look at this week’s plans, and schedule “something” for happening.

In the meantime, I have found the storyline for my novel.

I guess something happened, after all.