I mean, just for me.
I left on the Friday morning while my darling husband looked after our daughter and I came back on the Sunday evening.
Two whole days in
Just before I left, I had bought a little gem, pictured here. A Writer's
– A Guided Journey for the Creative
Soul by Eric Maisel. A wonderful, perfectly produced book all
about Paris and what a writer can do – must
do – when coming to write in Paris, whether for a month, three months or a
year (or anything in between), on a budget or not (though mostly it’s all about
surviving on a shoe string in the City of Light, because – ahem – it’s a
well-known fact that writers are broke half the time. Because writing takes
time, usually time when you can’t work simultaneously, so one constantly
struggles between time for writing and time for earning a bit of money). It has
pictures and drawings, lovely use of attractive fonts, and the cover and glacé
paper… wow! They make you feel like you’re holding a very expensive and very
precious book. Which I guess it is. Paris
Three years before that, I had read Eric Maisel’s A Writer's San Francisco (whose looks were unfortunately not quite as appealing – don’t you just hate that, not being able to get two similar books in the same collection?!) and compulsively turned its pages in the streets and cafés of SF. This time, I would do the same in the city where I was born, getting inspiration from reading Eric’s beautiful writing and from his ideas. Writing ideas generously offered by writers always get my creative juices flowing. (Eric’s even spurred me to write this post!)
I was born to write. Whether I’ll ever get published (other than electronically I mean, as will soon happen with my short stories, nearly ready for the iPad J) is neither here nor there. It’s increasingly clear to me that I absolutely don’t care what will eventually happen to my writing. As long as I keep writing (here and privately on my computer or in my numerous notebooks), I’ll be happy.
– A Guided Journey
for the Creative Soul. So much promise. Paris
And it delivered.
I wrote and wrote and wrote:
in a little café ironically named “Comme à la maison” (if I was going to end up at home, why go to
It was an idyllic weekend in an idyllic city for a budding writer. It even snowed!
Thank you, Eric. Next time, I’ll do exactly as you say and spend at least a month in