2015-07-08 - 9:52 p.m.

I'm supposed to lock this sucker and I will, but obviously I have been reluctant and slow to do that. I'm writing from an Air BnB in London, a basement flat in a townhouse in Kensington and I have that strange melancholy of being in a hotel/apartment while the city moves around me and I am with my kid and can't experience any of it. There is a tube strike and I was gutted for some reason when it happened - when you only have a few days in places, small inconveniences become huge, your only experiences with places become forever memories. I was hissing at my child one day (there has been lots of hissing and long talks and pleadings and anger - we have had a fantastic trip in general but good lord, the overall freaking ingratitude of children - the way they don't care that you may never be in London again or in the Tate Modern and the very fact that you may never be in London again really because you are 41 and it is your first time and lord, this trip cost a lot of money and boy, that's depressing and why doesn't your kid understand that and just walk faster/walk more/whine less/eat strange food??) - and I wondered what I would remember next month/year/10 years?

I haven't written a word on my book or anything else this trip. I haven't even read a book. I didn't bring any with me and the first one I bought was yesterday at the British Library, a really beautiful copy of Oliver Twist because hey, it's London and I always feel guilty about not liking/reading Dickens. So if I am not a reader and I am not a writer and I am hissing mother and I am not an American and I am not a Canadian and I am not excited about the coming year and I am not sure what the next step is and I am not creating or bubbling or plotting my next move - then what am I?

There is an email from the second agent to request my manuscript in my inbox - I almost emailed to tell her not to bother, I am 100% certain it is a rejection which is fine and expected and sort of not fine and strangely crushing. It is weirdly lonely to be in London with 8 million people swirling around and not feeling connected to anyone or this apartment or the life I am coming back to.

All of this sounds more melancholy than I truly am - I am just rifling through my head and heart while on this trip to see who I am without a commute, a job, chores, a plot and a plan - and I was curious to see what would fill the vacuum. Not as much as I hoped which is either troubling or human.

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