Paris Greatest Hits

I'm gettin' a little nostalgic these days. Maybe writing memories of the past ten-odd years of your life will do that to you. I don't know. I'm holing up (yet again) in BC to write like mad, so I may not be able to post for the next couple of days. In the meantime, I give you The City of Lights' Greatest Hits:

The Metro's Art Nouveau stylings. You know you are in a good place when the public transit gives you goosebumps.

Dramatic headless cemetery statues. Perhaps not a Hit in and of themselves, but somewhere around this decapitated angel are the bodies of Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf and Jim Freaking Morrison.

I have a thing for headless dudes, I guess. These ones did something to me. In a good way. The Musee du Cluny was spiritual.

Hey, remember that time when I got up at 7:30, crammed my beret on my head and ran down to the Barbes Market so I could be there when they opened? The place where they're only flirting with you because they want you to buy their tomatoes? Remember that? And then remember after, when that really cute guy in my building flirted with me (not because he wanted me to buy his tomatoes) but I couldn't understand a word he was saying, so I just stared at him stupidly?

Oh sure, there were a couple days like this. But despite the marketing, Paris in the Springtime is pretty much rainy and cold. The best way to get through it is get your daily dose of flowers and churches. Does a body good.

"My" cafe, La Fourmi. The manager was surly, the coffee borderline, the toilets shocking, and the ambience perfect for writing. Ask us about our transvestite panhandlers!

Not showing this would be like seeing a Don McLean concert and him not singing American Pie. He may not feel like it. Might feel like singing it is some big cliche and he's really moved on, you know? He's past it. But, really, it just wouldn't be right not to.

Jardin des Tuileries. Where statues look like angels. And where gypsy women hold photographs of sad-looking children and ask you for money.

The view from my window. What I saw when I arrived, exhausted and completely freaked out. What I saw when I wrote. What I saw when, rather than write another word, I wanted to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. What I saw while drinking 900 giant cups of tea every morning. What I saw when I fell in love with my characters. What I saw when I killed them. What I saw when I placed a pile of white pages on the table, took a breath and left for home.

Pulling Ahead

It's three weeks into my Great Book Writing Adventure. It's been a wild, wild ride so far. To be honest, I thought I'd have fallen off by now. Lingering somewhere in my own personal no-man's-land between the excited beginning and the triumphant end. The horse latitudes.

I finished the story of my ex. It took two solid writing days and a whole schwack of Kleenex. It was sweet in the beginning as I remembered what it's like to be fourteen and infatuated. (Yes, I fell for him at 14.) And then, just as it was in real life, it got worse and worse until I was a sobbing mess on a Friday afternoon.

I finished "his" section and I opened up the twenty-some-odd word processing files that comprise this book so far. I wrote down the word count of each of them and added it up. Just for fun. To see where I was relative to how I felt.

I needed to check in, what with the focus-pulling freakshow of the Great Jones Surprise Party on the weekend, followed by the Marathon of Idiots of this week's condo renting extravaganza. I figured, actually, I was screwed.

I punched numbers into my calculator, not looking at the running total. Numbers like 1372 (How My Paris Dream Began) and 2042 (A bunch of lists such as Lessons Learned from the Barbes Market and various bits of dialogue, such as the conversation between the shyster epicerie owner who shortchanged me 7 Euros).

I've been writing pieces by piece, story by story, or as Anne Lamott would say...bird by bird. When I wrote a rather terrible novel two Novembers ago, I wrote it in one enormous Word document, pages and pages electronically reaching far out of sight. This time, I just open a new file every morning and see what happens. One day I'll have to string them all together, and that day is coming soon, but not today.

Anyhoo.

I finished adding. I looked at the screen of the Casio calculator I stole years ago from either my dad or my friend Alison. Imagine my genuine surprise and infinite delight at seeing this number: 29, 211.

Thirty thousand words! In three weeks.

And it isn't even that I care about the actual number per se, it's that I'm doing it. I'm writing this book. It's happening and I'm so grateful for that. Grateful that I've found whatever it is you need to find in yourself to sit down and put your fingers to the keys. Grateful that the Great Creator has chosen to join me on this journey. Grateful for the people in my life who support me on it.

There is a lot of work to do yet, but I know I can do it.

The past two writing days have been emotionally hard. It reminds me of Paris when I had to kill Charlie, one of my characters. (Who came back to life in the second draft. Who now is about to be written out completely. Regardless.) It was sad. But deliciously sad.

How marvelous to dive into creation. How marvelous to put your head down and work at this task filled with love and then to look up and see that something real and living is taking shape.

Wootastic Day of Mythic Proportions

Quel day. My mind is a little bit blown, so forgive any gaps in logic or reason. Yesterday was in-freaking-sane.

First, I met with my Pop to discuss my plans for committing to my creative work for one year. "This is the year?" He asked. "This is it?" Yes, I said. I'm tired of letting fear hold me back like it has for the past ten. So, right now, this year, I'm moving past fear to whatever waits beyond it.

I also told him about the pattern I've had since my giant-sized depressive breakdown thing six or seven years ago. It goes like this: go on medication, get an unfulfilling full-time job, quit after a year or so, go freelance, choose 'paying the bills' over 'creative work,' get depressed. And repeat.

This summer, I was able to see the pattern before I popped the pill, pulled the 'chute and abandoned my creative self once again. These are the stakes, Pop. Write or drown.

And then he said:
1. I get it.
2. I support you 100%.
3. What do you need from me?

Every moment when I'm not writing lately, I have repeated, "The universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded." I walked away from my coffee with dad with the use of their car while they're gone, so I can sell mine, and later that evening, my folks called with an offer of a plane ticket on points.

Then, I returned all that damned IKEA furniture that was oppressing me and our garage and un-spent $1100. The $1100 that was going to be my plane ticket, but now represents a month's rent – if I can find a sublet or shared accommodation for 700 Euros...anyone?

Then Drea called to tell me that she might have $250k for her documentary and would I help her write a treatment for the investor. And, oh by the way, I'm writing the doc.

In the afternoon, a guy who rents executive suites to film people called. He needs one just like mine ASAP. He's a friend of a friend and we got to talking. I told him I'm a writer. I told him I wrote a screenplay in Paris. He said "Let's meet" because he knows people and there are lots of on-set writing jobs re-writing scenes as they shoot if I wanted to break in.

I immediately imagined myself running through the mud and pouring rain at one a.m. to my trailer, scribbled notes in my hand. This guy worked with Ang Lee on Brokeback Mountain. There are four projects shooting here right now, this minute.

In between those highlights, it's been a leeeeeeeettle chaotic. I talked on my cell phone so much I have a massive brain tumour. My idiot-per-hour rate has skyrocketed as a result of this condo renting adventure. Stress level? Atmospheric. I drove between Burbland and town six times yesterday, which equals well over two hours of emissions-chugging time-suckage. I did not write a word. I ate two lattes and a piece of frozen pizza at 9 pm. Which means I spent most of the day in my least flattering state. A state I call Bitch Hungry.

All I can do is stop getting spun by the chaos. I have to believe all of this is clearing the way so I can work. That this flurry of activity is setting the stage for a big, beautiful expanse of creative time, freedom and growth. That the perfect tenant fills my condo with light and love and a sweet chunk of change. That the right opportunities reveal themselves. That I receive the kind of support that leads me to my highest self. That everything is working perfectly. That the universe supports my creative work. I take a risk and am rewarded.

Not-So-Bons Mots

Writing about falling in love with my ex-husband for the next while. Harrowing work, but lovely, too. In a wistful nostalgia kind of way. And so, in an effort at levity during this weighted task, a compilation of my least favourite words. Words that – when I say them slowly, letting my tongue curl around their letters – conjure unspeakable horror within my very soul.

Slacks – Imagine if you will, too-tight 70s polyester plaid stretched unflatteringly across the wide expanse of a middle-school teacher's camel toe and ample...
Thighs – White chicken skin jiggling rippling cellulite dimpled flab
Paste – Flaccid, thin and wrong, like the taste of Elmer's glue
Panties – Annoyingly prim yet somehow pornographic
Breath – The hard br followed by the impotent th that makes yoga class impossible to enjoy
Milk – Stretchy strings of white milky mucus in the throat, a phlegmier word than phlegm itself
Moist – The sick sound of someone chewing, wet, so wet
Pleasure – A dirty-minded 60-something man whispering into the ear of an altogether too-young girl
Fabulous – If used to describe life as a single girl in my presence, I will punch your face in
Scrumptious – Aw, fuck off

And now for the other side of the linguistic coin. Words I love. Love, love, love. Absolutely not a definitive or complete list. Just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

Juice – Sounds like something that should be yelled at sporting events. Jooooooce!
Panties – Meh, it's a love-hate thing. My friend Nadine pronounces it pannies with a bit of a y-sound after the p. Like piannies. Hilarious.
Fuck – Come on. You love its raw, seething, sexual power, too. Admit it. Speaking of...
Raw – Exposed, bloody, muscular, vulnerable. Painful, real, terribly true.
Outrageous, Delicious, Gorgeous – When, and only when, my sister Kim says them
Bananas – Use liberally in the form of 'That's bananas!'
Segue – Yes, dahlings, that's how you spell 'segway.' Reminds me of siege. This segue has us under siege! Run for your lives before the topic changes!
Enraged – When uttered by my friend Hilary. Please read my homage to Hil here.
Intoxicated – Emphasize the 'tox' to introduce a lovely hint of pomposity
Fisticuffs – Bare-fisted boxing matches with big, old-fashioned handlebar mustaches. Carnival popcorn in striped boxes. Cymbal-banging monkeys and wind-up music boxes

Easy Does It

One of my favourite AA slogans. Along with Just for Today, which may have been a subconscious inspiration for my Just One Year (JOY) idea. Who knows? Let go and let God, I always say.

Anyhow.

Despite how effing haggard and beaten I felt, yesterday was a beautiful day. Because I wrote and it was glorious. I didn't push. I didn't count words. I just wrote for the sheer joy of it. I wrote Be Selfish on a Post-It note, sending an energetic PFO to everyone else and their ideas, opinions, needs and feelings. I let everything wait outside the door until I was good and done.

I wrote the way I write this blog, actually. I arrived at the page, which is to say I got present. I waited, hands poised above the keys. And then I let it come.

Don't be shocked, but I don't really plan what I write on this thing.

The stories I tell, tell themselves. They come from a place beyond thought. Even if they're stories about things I've done or said, they come from somewhere larger than me. I've described it before as God passing through my fingers and onto the page.

But it's not like I'm possessed or anything. I'm just flowing. I'm getting out of the way and letting the words and ideas pour out. I'm working and it doesn't feel like work. I feel curious about how this story wants to be told. Not stressed out about whether it's good or bad.

The story that asked to be written yesterday was about meeting Dana the Artist. A crazy night, back when I was still dressing like a Canadian tourist with sensible shoes and a Gortex rain jacket.

I arrived too early to a very-obviously-lesbian cafe in Le Marais and circled round and round, peering into the faces of everyone sitting out front. Trying to determine if any of them were Dana. And trying to ignore the ones that looked me up and down and turned away in disgust. (Gortex must not turn them on.)

Dana arrived and we had a drink before proceeding to another bar. Where I met a bizarre-and-beautiful burlesque dancer from Kentucky, who I fell madly in love with on sight. Who was just returning from a bondage workshop. Who only dates non-biological men. And whose head I almost knocked off her body by coming in a little too fast for the kiss-kiss French greeting thing.

It was, howyousay, le weird. I have never felt as whitebread as I felt that night. It took me three days and a map to find my comfort zone again. If I ever found it.

All of which makes for a damn good story.

The O.D.

I met with my writer/editor friend Jill yesterday to talk through the memoir project and (I hoped) hammer out some sort of outline or structure.

But what came out of our discussion wasn't about writing per se. It was about dreams. Somewhere in our conversation, I told her that the original incarnation of this dream, my big Paris writing dream, was very different than the thing I actually did.

My Original Dream (the O.D.) was to spend a year in Paris, write a novel and be fluent in French. The thing that happened was I spent a month in Paris, wrote a screenplay and spoke enough French to get groceries and coffee.

"So, you haven't lived your dream yet," Jill said matter-of-factly.

And then my ears started making that sound, you know the one, that high-pitched sound when your world just got ever so slightly rocked and you're not sure if you'll still be standing up in a minute.

What if I haven't lived my dream?

What if that month in Paris was the appetizer course of a meal I'm still starving for?

Yesterday was a hard day. Two people harangued me for pushing Paris back to February. My rack-up-the-word-count work style was criticized. I was with family all weekend and didn't touch my memoir for three days – which I've learned is the limit of my sanity. I said yes to having people over when I absolutely should have given myself that time to write. I haven't been sleeping. I am broke.

And it's entirely possible that I need to go to Paris for a year.

Someone reminded me that this Just One Year plan was about "givin' 'er for a year, right?" They said it casually, as though this was all in fun, this grand hobby I have. As though closing the door of my office and turning my cell phone off between the hours of X and X would cut it.

But, down in my secret places, I don't think it does. When you stay in your regular life, "they" can still get you. There's always going to be someone who needs a ride to the airport. And someone you haven't seen in ages who is demanding dinner next week. And the phone ringing and the email binging. There's always going to be vampires.

"Sometimes you have to give up one part of yourself to reveal another part." Is what Dana said.

"You must put your own oxygen mask on before you help anyone else." Is how Heather put it.

This great risk I feel compelled to take. The complete commitment I've put out there. Will it tolerate waiting six more months? Will it allow me to 'build up gradually' as though this was a workout program from some women's magazine? Will it accept compromise at all? Or will it keep clutching at me and scratching out my eyes until I submit completely? Until I let go of this person I keep trying to be and become the person I am.

The Incredible Floating Family

I know I probably have you all well-trained NOT to check my blog on the weekends, but now I'm all goal-happy, so I'm posting every day. And it turns out I lay out some serious plans on Saturdays and rethink those plans on Sundays. Quel shock.

And here we are Monday. Exhausted after a sleepless weekend because I'm stressing about my frickin' condo. But energized from a mind-blowingly good talk with my family.

See, I have the kind of family where you need to have your shit together. At all times, you should know what is happening with your career, your relationship, your real estate holdings, your investments and the contents of your refrigerator. And at all times, all of these things should be getting better, not worse.

At least that's how I've felt for the past thirty-odd years.

Being a creative-type in a family of scientists has not helped in the Having My Shit Together department. Especially since I've been trying desperately to fit into some half-assed hybrid state of having a full-time job while feeling fulfilled creatively. Which, of course, hasn't worked. So, I end up quitting job after job and looking like a real flake.

(Not to mention the fact that I bring up "The Universe" as a viable decision-making strategy in a family for which logic is the tool in the drawer.)

So, imagine my surprise and secret delight at hearing, one by one, all of my family members reveal how completely and totally OUT of control they are. My two sisters, my mom. Even my super-high-functioning, intimidatingly successful father is a little unsure. We're all in the same boat. No, we're OUT of the boat. Bobbing. Dog paddling. In a vast ocean of confusion.

On a Sunday afternoon, we all lifted up our skirts to reveal the swirling chaos we've been working so hard to hide from each other.

I finally told these people that I've been living Plan B for ten years and it's not working. And at 32 years of age (my saving years!), it's time I tried Plan A. So I'm selling my stuff and taking off to Paris.

I was so afraid of being judged. But the opposite happened. I felt lifted up by support. And I think that was because we all have something in common – we're all uncertain. Not one of us knows what's going to happen in six months. Where we'll be living, what we'll be doing, how we'll be paying for it. No clue. All of us have realized that The Way We Thought Things Would Go is vastly different from The Way They Went. All of us are hanging by our fingernails in limbo, hoping it all turns out okay.

How bloody refreshing.

My mom has a funny habit of blurting out usually-ridiculous bits of wisdom in the middle of regular conversation. For years we've been writing down things like, "You can't sue from the grave," and compiling them into booklets of what we call Momisms. I think we're working on Volume 3.

But yesterday, as I tearfully explained why Normal wasn't going to work for me even though I've tried, she came up with one that doesn't seem to fit with sayings like "Dijon mustard is a multimedia experience."

"Mel," she said, handing me my seventh Kleenex. "Normal is a myth."