How Not to Write a Novel

The house in Campulung, Romania

It’s been two weeks since we moved to Romania—half the time we planned to stay here. That’s a long time but also hardly any time at all, during which I’ve written three stories. Yes, three. And that’s not even counting those wallowing in their unfinished words by the wayside, still waiting for an ending.

It turns out that change inspires me in industrial quantities. A new home, a new view, a new culture—all these breathe words into me, turning me into a production line of fresh stories, essays, and anecdotes drawn from life or imagination. Some are tiny, some are moderately sized, and some are as long as the traffic jams on the Ayalon Freeway but flow as smoothly as the Jordan River. Maybe one of them will even grow into a full-length novel one day.

But the stories—what are they worth?

The story is in the eye of the beholder, of course, but the truth is, I’m rusty. Not long ago, I told my husband, “I’m rusty.”

“What are you saying?” he exclaimed. “You just need to exercise a bit more.”

“Not physically!” I replied. “I’m rusty. I write like a teenager experiencing their first creative writing workshop. Where is the writer I used to be? I read the things I’ve written, and they feel like a cheap knockoff of something I was trying to say.”

He thought momentarily, then asked, “When was the last time you wrote a story from beginning to end?”

I was struck silent.

“A story, a poem, a piece, a slogan—anything?”

A story written from start to finish...

That was in South Africa during the COVID pandemic, in a small town called Prince Albert. I had travelled to Cape Town for two weeks, but lockdowns stretched it into eight months. There, surrounded by breathtaking mountains and wrapped in a desert-mountainous landscape, I wrote a lot. One night, I had a dream—one of those long dreams that feel like a lifetime, so vivid you wake up in disbelief that none of it is real. For me, it was a whole period of life. I immediately made coffee and sat on the porch to write it all down. It was still fresh in my mind, so I sank back into it. I’m talking, of course, about Vandana.

Since then, life has thrown plenty of upheavals my way, mostly family-related. I kept writing, of course—I never stopped. I have a respectable collection of half-written stories, barren essays, and fragments with untapped potential. Most of them sit in the drawer of forgotten dreams, hoping one day to recover and see the light of day. And most of them, I haven’t revisited since they were written and abandoned. My main focus was my novel, which I completed. But since then, I haven’t produced anything new—a story that coalesces into something whole, that you can relish from beginning to end and finish with a sigh, or a tear, or a laugh.

So much time has passed since I wrote anything other than the novel. The narrator’s voice is so embedded in my head, and their world is still imprinted on mine. I feel distant from other things, disconnected, and… well, rusty. Strange, isn’t it?

But that’s not all. Here in Romania, I’ve found that since the atmosphere is so different and the quiet so absolute—especially because we intentionally chose to stay in the countryside rather than a city—I’ve rediscovered the ability to start my mornings without rushing into work. Instead, I sit with a cup of coffee by the fireplace, listening to the crackle of the wood, maybe reading a chapter or two of my book. Only then do I get to work, with a clear head.

Sometimes, I even start the day by writing, with my eyes still webbed from sleep and my mind pleasantly foggy.

So now, I need to learn again how not to write a novel. At least, until the next one.

2025

Good morning,

Autumn has arrived in Lisbon, almost without us noticing. Yes, I live in Lisbon now. It’s been a long time since we last spoke.

The weather has become a capricious creature, changing every moment. On the eve of Yom Kippur, the rain poured over the rooftops, and the winds joined it in a roaring rebellion.

Ter, my husband, was just strolling down the street, his steps light, and he paused for a moment in front of the display window of a small shop. At that exact moment, right in front of his eyes, a tree struggling against the wind fell to the ground, exactly where Ter would have been standing had he not stopped by the shop.

It’s frightening to think of what might have been. In my Tunisian mind, thoughts immediately sprang up about how this tree nearly turned me into a widow at such a young age, but I also felt sorry for its fate. And what would I do if the worst had happened? One thing led to another, and I demanded my husband to write a will. He didn’t expect such a reaction; honestly, neither did I.

Today, after I woke up (next to my husband, thank God) and clear skies had turned my bedroom window blue, other thoughts arose: ah! The world needs decisiveness and gradual change, but like many things nowadays, it’s become extreme and impulsive.

I give the same answer when people ask me what my favourite season is. The transition, of course. Not the transitional seasons, I mean, but the transition itself from one season to another—that’s my favourite season. That brief moment when nature catches its breath, shakes off the past and offers us a fresh start with crisp air and refreshing scents. But nowadays, in the era of global warming, transitions have turned into random skips between seasons. Even my wardrobe is confused, with sweaters and short-sleeved shirts hanging side by side, all facing an uncertain future and demanding equal attention.

My new year is already taking shape in my mind, but like baking challah, we’ll see how it turns out and how digestible it will be. Still, if you allow me, I’d like to share my plans. Later, when they fall victim to the reality that will bend, delay, or completely destroy them, you can laugh at my expense, and we’ll have a good time.

So Ter and I bought plane tickets for November, planning a weekend escape to Bucharest, Romania. After that, we’ll drive about two hours to a remote village called Câmpulung, where a villa sits among the fields, overlooking endless forests. We’ll spend November there. We’re both a bit tired of the city bustle and are seeking a place where time will slow down, allowing us to sink in front of the fireplace in the approaching winter quiet and enter a temporary hibernation.

After Romania, we’ll return to Lisbon and immediately start arranging a three-month home exchange with friends from Israel. I’m eager to return to Israel, which I miss painfully, but moving between countries is a complex process that takes time, and I find myself terribly impulsive, like the modern weather. After that, we’ll once again return to Portugal.

You’re probably wondering why we’re returning to Portugal for another period. We need to remain Portuguese residents for our next goal this year: buying a van. We’ll return to Lisbon for a bit longer—a month, maybe two—or however long it takes to find a van - fall in love with a van - buy a van. A van that will become our mobile home, allowing us to travel across Europe with greater freedom. This is our final mission in Europe before we return home to Israel. For how long? I don’t know. Until the wanderlust strikes again.

Beyond that, may 2025 be beautiful and different; for this year, I’ll publish my debut novel! It hasn’t yet received a title, but everything is in its own time. New ideas are already buzzing on the horizon, and I’m excited to move from one idea to the next. But it takes me time to transition to a new idea; after all, I am not the weather, and my transitions are a bit more gradual when it comes to writing. But once I feel ready, I’ll move on to the next novel, and when that happens—you’ll know.

Romanian Adventure

Packing.

I hate packing. I love unpacking. Packing is an ending; unpacking is a new beginning. Packing is sending parts of yourself far away; unpacking is something that stays with you. Packing is ranking things by importance and then cramming them into a small space; unpacking is scattering your belongings around you, marking your territory, even if temporarily. Packing is constipation; unpacking is that post-coffee release. I hate packing, love unpacking. But today, I’m packing; there are also days like this.

Our November will happen in Romania.

It began with a guest from the past reappearing in our lives. A woman from Israel sublets from us whenever she needs to come to Portugal for work trips. We hesitated a bit when she asked if she could stay at ours throughout November. Then, Ter saw it as an opportunity to visit his homeland, Cape Town, South Africa. He hasn’t seen his family since our wedding and thought this would be a good chance. But somehow, with the end of the endless summer, images of Norway’s frozen landscapes and the beauty of the Northern Lights began to rise and take over our thoughts. Since reading Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, I’ve dreamt of seeing the Northern Lights. We’re talking about years of longing for a beauty I’ve only seen in my imagination. But finding a reasonably priced place outside the city where you can see the Northern Lights turned out to be a difficult and discouraging task. Norway isn’t impossible, but it’s no Portugal.

In the meantime, our subletter wanted an answer. Can she come? Should she book a flight? Although we didn’t have concrete plans, we said yes. We didn’t know where we’d go, but we knew one thing for sure—we wanted to go. Somewhere, anywhere. We were itching for new adventures, new places, different food, different air, a new landscape—that’s what we’d always done, at least before the war. Above all, we wanted a break from the city. Lisbon is crowded, and we're always so busy during our extended visits to Israel, rushing between friends and family. We wanted to cocoon ourselves (is that a thing?) in a quiet place, away from the city, somewhere cold that would give us a reason to hibernate, to tuck in for a winter’s nap, and only awaken come summer.

We found friends who wanted to join us in Norway, but none of them knew when or for how long, so the whole thing became too vague. At that point, we zoomed out. We moved away from Norway and gradually realised we had no choice but to find a place that might not have the Lights or the North but would offer peace and space and wouldn’t cost more than our rent (it’s not a holiday, after all, just a change of atmosphere). Eventually, our search led us to Transylvania, Romania, not far from Dracula’s castle. If you ask me whether I’m excited—I can’t deny it; I don’t like to lie.

And that’s that. Tomorrow’s the flight. We’ll land in Bucharest and spend the weekend there, then rent a car and drive to Campulung, a small town two hours away. How will we travel? I’m glad you asked. Anyone who’s ever rented a car in Israel for 24 hours will know because, in Romania, that’s the price for renting a car for an entire month. No, I’m not exaggerating.