It is done! Finally. Well, a first pass of the novel is, anyway. Now begins the hard part.

For those of you who don’t know how a nobody (like me!) does anything with a novel, here’s a rough idea. A lot of people self-publish, or directly contact small, independent presses to convince them to print some copies. This is a very good idea if you are really motivated to push your book and get it seen. This is not a good idea if you aren’t good at self-promotion. Despite how this blog my appear, I’m rubbish at it, so I’m trying the other route for now…

The other route begins with a measly little query letter. Three paragraphs that you send to any literary agent you might be able to convince to read them. Should an agent happen to pick your letter out of the thousands they receive every week, you might be lucky enough to get a request for a partial manuscript. If they like what they read, they might ask to read all of it. If they still like what they read, they might offer to represent you. Then the real fun begins. Editing, pitching, begging a publisher to take a chance on you… It’s a lengthy process.

I’m not being self-deprecating, or lacking in self-belief, when I say that the chances are, I will not get very far in the process. The publishing world is ruthless, and I am a tiny minnow lost in its giant ocean. Of course, I am going to try my best. But it is entirely possible that no one but my mother (and possibly my thesis advisor) will ever read Nihilists Anonymous.

But I am not writing this post to bemoan my lot. I am writing this post because, if I’m honest, I’m a little scared. Not about rejection – I am proud of this book and that’s good enough for me. But about coming back to the US and to Princeton next semester.

I made a massive life decision, to take a year off from university, in order that I could complete this novel. Yes, there were other reasons. But still, that was what this year was for. And I’ve done what I wanted to. But was it really the right decision?

With every fiber of my being, I know that the answer is yes. But it’s hard for me to explain why. If some magic publishing fairy scooped up my book and had it in Barnes & Noble by September it would be so much easier to face the inevitable questions about my year in the real world. 

But I think that’s sad. That to justify my decisions, I feel the need to look back and find flagpoles waving success. I didn’t make this decision to beef up my resume; I made it because I wanted to be happy. And in that respect, I know this decision was the right one.

My head is full of every question I had before and more. Am I really a writer? Is this book actually any good? Do I have the talent and the dedication to make a living doing what I love? I can’t answer any of those questions. But I’ve decided I’m not going to measure the merit of my decisions on how many answers I collect, or how many accolades I can pin on my lapel. The decisions I made brought me to where I am now. All I need to do to see if I’ve been on the right track is to look forward and ask: is the path ahead somewhere I want to go?

Regardless of what happens with this novel, and despite how hazy any idea of the future is for me, now, I can confidently say that I am excited about moving forward.

Yesterday, Cecilia and I found ourselves wearing nothing but precarious pairs of paper underwear, while having our whole bodies lathered by a total stranger.

To explain: First, we are in Marrakech. Girls’ weekend! Second: yesterday, it was raining, we were recovering from the night before, and a traditional Morrocan hammam sounded like the perfect way to do it.

To be fair, it was lovely. The scrub down was vigorous, the atmosphere a little awkward to begin with, but afterwards we both felt squeaky clean and thoroughly relaxed. But as we sat there in near nudity, I couldn’t help but think how dramatically this experience contrasted with the rest of what we’ve experienced in Morocco. 

We’re two, light-skinned, young, blonde girls. Even when we cover up properly (as we have been doing) we’re bound to attract attention.

“If it gets too much,” said the lovely owner of our riad, “just put a scarf over your face. You’ll see a lot of women wearing hijabs anyway.”

We’re staying in the Old Medina, but in an untouristy part, and it’s ever so traditional. So on Thursday night, we decided to get out and see some of the new Morocco. And see some of the new Morocco we certainly did.

We had dinner in a restaurant full of expats on golfing mini breaks. Then, we moved to Le Comptoir, a cocktail bar famous for its history of attracting jet-setting socialites. But among young tourists like us, were groups of young Moroccan men wearing glitzy watches, puffing on shisha pipes, and, more interestingly, Moroccan women, taking everything their grandmother taught them and throwing it quite dramatically out of the window.

I’m used to seeing girls with their boobs out. Tight clothing is a constant feature of the life of an American college girl. But it came as somewhat of a surprise to see quite so many girls “drop it low” to give the entire room a flash of their underwear (or lack thereof).

Later, we moved to Theatro, a club that is renowned for its large proportion of “working” clientele. Some of the faces from earlier reappeared, and PDAs (whether financially acquired or not) were rife.

I have no desire to provoke a normative debate about the treatment of women and their bodies in a culture like the Moroccan one. But it was fascinating to me to see such a contrast between the very traditional way of life, and a very modern one; literally night and day. It’s as though such suppression of sexuality in daily life has forced it to burst out in ways that I, at least, as someone who’s seen my fair share of sexualisation, found a little shocking and a little sad.

As a seaweed scrub washed away our bashfulness, and we were back to being babes washed by mummy in the bathtub, it all felt rather silly. We’ve all got the same bits, I thought. What’s all this fuss over a body?

Yesterday, I nearly became a professional jazz singer.

Ok, that’s a massive exaggeration. Yesterday, I had an audition. I didn’t do much of it at Princeton, but when I was younger I used to be all about jazz singing. So when I saw a post online about a jazz group looking for a secondary singer, I thought, why not?

I sent the band a couple of samples, and they invited me to watch them perform. After spending 17 euros on a tea to see them (no joke), I met the group leader, and we set up a jam session. 

That was yesterday. He came over to my flat with his guitar. He’s probably in his early 70s, but has suddenly, he tells me, got a burning to desire to actually make a success of his lengthy career.

“I used to busk with Madeleine Peyroux when she was 18,” he says, wistfully. “Who would have known she’d have such a career?”

Then we start trying some songs. A quick swing version of Cry Me A River. A latin take on The Way You Look Tonight. A slow blues balad of Summertime. It’s all going pretty well, and just for a moment, a whole different world opens up ahead of me. I’m the little darling wheeled out in a fancy dress to croon and charm old men out of their pocket change…

And then we discover that I can’t improvise harmony to save my life and it all crumbles. 

To be honest, it wasn’t going to work anyway. I was way out of my depth (I’ve never been paid to sing before) and I’m the wrong person for the job. I only have space in my heart for one great love, and it isn’t singing.

But as I wandered through the snow this afternoon, it all just got me thinking about how many possible paths life can take. I had this sudden image of standing in the middle of a constantly spinning bike wheel, quite haphazardly pointing my finger down whichever spoke happened to fall in front of me when I decided to move forward.

A few days ago was the deadline for Princeton room draw application. I didn’t sign up. I’m coming back next year, but I’m commuting to university from New York.

At the time, making that decision felt like a little one – a spoke an inch away from the next. But actually, because of that decision, my life next year is going to be a million miles from what it would have been. Little decisions today change everything tomorrow, and little decisions tomorrow change everything the day after. When you think how many little decisions you have to make every day, how mind-bogglingly full of possibilities does that make life?

Maybe it’s just that eerie quiet after a muffling layer of snow that’s making me feel spacy today. But I quite like the feeling. It makes life seem ever so exciting.

CHALLENGE 4: Spend a whole day on the bus. 

First of all: a side-note. I want to say thank you to everyone for the wonderful response to my last blog post. I never imagined that I’d find such support among the people I know, and from people I don’t. It made me wish I’d written it before. If you are facing any similar problems, please share with someone or everyone (and thank you to those who have shared with me). It really helps.

 Now. Let’s talk about the big elephant in the last few weeks of my life. His name is Big Brother. And yes, I can finally say his name. Because I just got off the phone from telling his producer I’m not going near him.

“Oh no!” she said. “Can I ask why? Did anyone say anything to you at the auditions that made you change your mind?”

“I mean, a lot of people said they were surprised I was auditioning,” I explained. “I’m not the classic “Big Brother” type…”

“I know and that’s why we loved you!” she said.

For a few weeks, I was set on doing it. Particularly when people told me I shouldn’t. (I am infuriatingly obstinate and contrary.) But then, I spent an entire day on the bus, and things became perfectly clear.

This one takes some explaining.

I’ve been dying to do one of the challenges submitted through this blog for a while now. The actual challenge was to spend a whole day on the metro, but I don’t like the metro. I like the bus. So, I edited it a bit.

Here are the rules I created for myself:

1. Get on the bus outside my door.

2. Don’t get off the bus until the end of the line.

3. Get on the next bus that arrives at the stop.

4. Repeat 2 and 3 all day.

5. Only stop when I accidentally arrive back outside my door. 

I spent 8 hours and 15 minutes on 10 different bus lines. I visited the furthest corners of Paris, rode through the suburbs, and ended up in places I never would have imagined to be part of my city. It was fascinating. I’m writing a little piece about all of the things I saw, which I might post here later. 

But what I realised, as I rode through street after street with nothing but my thoughts, a pretentious moleskin and a giant bottle of coke (for caffeine – it’s difficult to stay awake on the bus!), was that Big Brother is not me.

Anyone who’s watched the show in the last few years probably thinks that’s the most obvious statement in the world. But you see, I do like crazy adventures. Doing weird and unexpected things is absolutely up my street.

The problem with Big Brother, as many people pointed out, is that it would be an adventure that would strip of the possibility for others. It would, as they themselves admitted, rob me of my anonymity, and brand me irrevocably with its name. 

Big Brother might have brought me enough twitter followers to convince a magazine to give me a column. It might have given me a platform that would have convinced (a certain type of) literary agents to respond to my emails. But it also might have changed my life in a way I wouldn’t have wanted. Yes, I’d like to have a little more money, and a few more people to write for. But I like my privacy. I like seeing a thousand faces a day, none of whom know anything about me.

And I like being able to spend an entire day on the bus.

I’ve always hated labels. But it’s Mental Health Week back at Princeton, and I’ve watched on Facebook as they have been batted backwards and forwards; challenged and questioned; de-stigmatized and conquered. So I’ve decided to write about the one that, for the last four years, I’ve been hiding.

Everyone gets down, especially in a competitive environment like Princeton. Most of us struggle with self-esteem and self-doubt. We bury ourselves under stress, and panic at the prospect of the future. Everyone tells us that success will make us happy, so we aim to succeed at all costs, even our happiness.

But it took me quite a while (and a lot of counseling) to realise that it isn’t normal to find yourself unable to get out of bed for days at a time. And that it isn’t healthy to feel like you’re incapable of relating to anyone. And it isn’t a good idea to carry on as you are if you can’t remember the last time you were truly happy.

Over the course of my teenage years, I became expert at creating an impenetrable veneer. No one, except perhaps my parents, knew there was anything wrong, which is why this is hard for me to talk about and why I haven’t done so with more than a handful of people before.

But today, I sat in a lovely little Parisian café, writing my novel, and I finally felt free. Free of embarrassment; free to be honest, particularly with myself.

The literal meaning of depressed is something liked squashed, and that’s what I was. Not by my environment, (though that didn’t help), but by my expectations of myself. Afraid to be me because I was too caught up in being what I thought I had to be. 

Yes, it was partially from external pressure. From the burden of carrying a perfect record and having others expect it to continue. But the cage I was stuck in was one of my own building. 

I know that depression is the result of a chemical imbalance in the brain. I know that I will always be prone to lows, and that there’ll be days in the future when I won’t get out of bed again. But I also know that depression needn’t control your life and make you miserable. Once you learn the triggers that cause that curtain of grey to descend, you can avoid them, and manage them, and keep that at bay.

Trying to contort myself into a jelly mould that doesn’t fit me is my vice and my downfall. For a while, at Princeton, that is exactly what I was doing. I don’t want to go into details of the meltdown that catalyzed my temporary departure, but there was one, and it wasn’t pretty.

When I said I left Princeton to write a novel, I wasn’t lying. Because writing this novel, and standing on my own two feet in Paris, and exploring the wider world – that’s me. I have the greatest respect for people who are called to positions of power, and who are compelled to climb the ladder until they are the best at whatever they do. I don’t think there is a finer place for future leaders than Princeton. But it’s been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done to admit that that’s not me.

This year isn’t just about writing this novel. It’s also about settling into myself sufficiently that when I return to campus in September, I’ll be strong enough to make use of the opportunities Princeton offers, rather than to let them shape and constrain me.

I don’t know if I’ll ever really shrug off depression. But finally, perhaps for the first time I can remember, I’m not depressed anymore. And it’s lovely.

It’s 3.20pm, and I just got up. Oops.

To be fair, I was at work last night. But, well, I suppose I finished work at 5am, so I can’t really use that as an excuse for why I ended up staying in the bar till 8am. It was just an epically slow night, so I felt like hanging out after work. And one drink turned into a few, which turned into managing to convince my boss we could get a bar cat. (I can’t wait. He’s going to be called Troglodyte and play the piano like one of the Aristocats.) But anyway.

Things have been a bit all over the place at the moment. I wish I could write all about it, but sadly I signed a contract that binds my lips shut. Let’s just say I’m a ridiculous human being, that I spent most of this weekend on the megabus getting to and from the UK, and that I might be spending this summer with the opposite of a little sister. (Cryptic, right? Riddles are fun.)

If you work out what I’m talking about, you will probably be wetting yourself with laughter right now, and completely convinced that I am clinically insane. Maybe I am, but all this craziness that’s been going on recently has been forcing me to answer questions about what I want from life. This weekend, in fact, I had a camera pointed at my face while I was asked to answer that question explicitly.

My day-to-day life has plateaued a little recently. I’m comfortable with my jobs, and I love my flat, and when I’m not focused on one of my nutty projects, I’m quite happy to chug along. There were a couple of Americans in the bar last night who found that rather hard to believe.

“But you went to Princeton,” said one of the guys. “What are you doing working here?” 

“I like working here,” I said. “And I do other things too.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t you be out saving the world, or running a company or something?” he said, incredulous.

I laughed and shrugged. “Not for me.”

Ok, I wouldn’t be happy as a barmaid for life. But actually, in terms of cool experiences, my life right now offers me a bunch of them. Staying up until sunrise, drinking cider and laughing about silly things with my boss and his best friend is actually the kind of experience that makes me quite content with the way things are at the moment.

And a base in the mundane offers all sorts of opportunities to venture into the surreal. Like the exploits of this weekend.

“Why do you want to do this?” said one of the other people in front of the camera that I met in London. “I don’t get it. You just seem so… normal.”

“I am normal!” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to live a “normal” life. I want cool experiences, and adventures, and crazy stories to remember when I’m old. I want unpredictable, and weird, and silly, and funny, and totally ridiculous.”

In fact, what I really want is things to write about. And right now, my head’s so full of them they’re trickling out of my ears.

For the last few days, I’ve been pretty ill. By which I mean, I’ve been stuck in bed with a temperature, a cold and a chest infection. I just left my flat for the first time since coming back from work on Saturday night, and it was only to the corner shop. Turns out frozen peas aren’t a very good form of sustenance. 

I had a friend to visit last week, which was lovely. But otherwise, the last seven days haven’t really gone in my favour. I don’t want to sound self-pitying, because at least some of it has been my fault, but fate hasn’t been kind to me this week.

It started on Tuesday. I noticed that my loo was continually flushing, so I, being the plumbing genius that I am, decided to investigate.

The arm of the ballcock was stuck down (I even know the terminology!), so I lifted it up, and…. SNAP! It came off in my hand, as water literally exploded into my face. I’m talking full-out, I-can’t-see-anything, cover-my-face-and-fumble-around-until-I-find-the-cut-off-valve, leaking catastrophe. Fortunately, I did find the valve. But I was drenched from head to toe, as was my bathroom, and now my loo didn’t work. Gross. 

A short while later, after taking some pictures of the inside of the cistern, and watching some plumbing youtube tutorials (actually) I wandered down to the corner shop to buy the part I’d broken. A 20-minute conversation about plumbing in French later, I was feeling pretty impressed with myself and my ability to tackle real world problems. Then, I got to my door. And realized that both my key and my spare key were on the other side of it.

Come on. How stupid do you have to be?

Unfortunately, in the real world, there is no p-safe with a master key. So, instead, I trundled back to the hardware shop with my tail between my legs and asked my new friends for the number of a locksmith. The lovely guy who works there got out his lock picking tools and decided to help me himself. We passed a rather uncomfortable hour where he tried to prove his manliness and open the door himself, but he was unsuccessful. Eventually, we called his friend (the actual locksmith) who charged me 100 euros to drill a hole in my door. It was actually cheap by Parisian standards, but my 150-euros-a-week budget didn’t think so.

All was well for a few days, then I started to feel ill. On Thursday, my boss asked me to work Saturday, and thinking nothing of it, I agreed. But by Saturday, I was not a well bunny. So I did what I never do, and I took some medicine.

The previous inhabitant of my flat (from whom I’m subletting) left behind some things, including a medicine box. So I went rummaging, and came up with paracetamol. Simple enough, right? But since I never take medicine, I don’t really understand it, so I didn’t know that taking 1g of paracetamol (it was just one pill!) is actually rather a lot. It didn’t stop me feeling rubbish anyway, it just made me paranoid and unable to take anything else that might have been more effective.

Then, at 11pm on Saturday, the bar suddenly got busy. It’s been busy when I’ve worked before, but never like this. For six hours straight, I didn’t have a moment’s break. By which I mean I served order after order after order until closing time at 5am.

George could see I was flagging, (though I did a pretty good job of keeping up, if I do say so myself), so made me do shots of liquid sugar cane. It was disgusting, but it does give you a quick, jittery boost…

The bar made so much money on Saturday, and I worked so hard, George gave me a 20-euro bonus, which was nice. But then I collapsed into bed, and have only just got up since.  

The thing is, I want to blame fate for these series of somewhat unfortunate events, but they’re really just normal problems. And some of them have just been dramatic because I wasn’t prepared for their possibility.

I now have a strategically positioned spare key. (I don’t mean it’s under the doormat – it’s with a friend.) I wear the first one on a long chain around my neck when I go out, and I am determined I shall never be locked out again.

The loo is fixed. I did actually manage to replace the broken part myself in about 10 minutes, which I was pretty impressed with. There’s a bucket strategically hidden behind it, anyway, to save me from a flood if it gives way in the future.

And my freezer now contains things other than peas, just in case I get stuck in my flat again.

I haven’t quite adjusted to the real world yet, but I’m learning.