When I say I have never finished anything I’d started, I literally mean “anything”, from marriages to posting twice weekly on FaceBook. I have barely told a soul about Regret Everything, self-harming on its promotion chances, because I am legit prematurely embarrassed that "this, too, shall pass". The thing I’m clinging on to is that I really do suffer from severe verbal diarrhea. The thought of speaking out remains so strong that I would do anything. Talk about desperate measures.

I have decided to give it a month to see whether I am capable to do a post a day, – two posts, actually, in the two languages. Each one approximately 500 words, which, according to my advanced counting research methods, is more or less standard in the bloggersphere – the absolute favourite sphere! My time management, unless it involves my daughter Sofia, is for total sh-t, always has been, and unless I wait and see if writing every day is achievable, I won’t find out otherwise. They say it takes 21 days to make or break a habit, been there done that and for sure I don’t fit into the 3-week box, therefore a month it is.

Here is the detailed description of my dramatic, one-week-old learning curve no one has asked for:

Distractions are destructions. Nothing I do more of than self-sabotage by f-cking with the gram, FB, Twitter. My hand is a fidget-with-iPhone away from being chopped off in punishment for acting out of control. I have tried leaving the phone in the bedroom and on mute but then I would just get up and go get it. It’s too easy, how’s this supposed to work even? Real talk though, if it’s not the phone, it’s literally anything else. Like clipping my cats' claws.

After birthing 8 posts, I have in disbelief waved an unenthusiastic good-bye to the romance of writing. There is no magic to it, most of the time it’s labour with no epidural, which is the worst kind of labour because, hello, pain. The magic is replaced by the reality of an empty page syndrome and that’s when the social media problem eats me alive, like the merciless predator it is. The mystery of an artist should not exist, artistry is prosaic and banal.

I require 4 hours a day on average to produce, and upload, two posts. That is half the hours of an ordinary working day for an ordinary human being – I am not part of the ordinary human being circle then and it sucks. All the childcare (used loosely and includes endless cooking and chaperoning duties) is the slyest, most absorbing, pulling quagmire of them all. If I want to cope with the mundanity, I will need to start prewriting. In fact, should I choose to do anything outside my house chores, I will need to start prewriting, which is what I am trying now because tomorrow I will dedicate most of my day to Sofia’s school art project. How many f-cking projects can a school roll out??? They are breaking my spirit.

Unless there’s nothing left to break? I have not watched Netflix, I can’t find the time to do movies and I’ve had 20 pages left until the end of my book for over a week. I also couldn’t find the time to FaceTime mama today.