Paris Post Deux: Snapshots

Two weeks ago today, Zoe and I were relaxing with a hot chocolate back in our hotel room after a busy afternoon wandering around the wonderful Jardin des Tuilieries, which stretch alongside the River Seine with the Louvre at one end and the Place de la Concorde at the other.  Here are a few shots of some things that caught my eye in the gardens, followed by some other snaps of general Parisian inspiration!

The following bronze sculptures by Germaine Richier fascinated me.  They're chessboard pieces, and I wonder if they are a little like gremlins (or even gargoyles), who might come alive at night and play wonderfully devilish games of chess and other impish enigmas...

Not far from our hotel was the train station, and just alongside it was this interesting Tower of Time:

Further on was the Opera House – and this is a truly stunning piece of architecture.  After ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the roof sculptures and wondering quite how they keep the gold paint/patina/colour (whatever it is!) so bright, one of the first things I noticed was...

...a lady sitting on the steps outside the front of the Opera house, reading to her daughter (presumably).  I loved this moment of reading, being that books are so important to me; a story inside a storybook, it piqued my curiosity and asked questions of me...but as I was sightseeing, my camera, not my notebook, was in my hand so I snapped the plot-note instead of jotting it down.

Still snapping away, I caught the spectacular upper facade and suddenly discovered a new daydream: one day, my Future Mr Fabulous Hunk, uHHHHHkkk Hunk, Hall dressed up and decked out (listen up, whoever you are!), will take me to see the opera at the Paris Opera House, and I will LOVE it!

One of my favourite finds in Paris was Cafe Illy, at 13 rue Auber just along from the Opera House.  An Italian brand of coffee whose cafe popped up just when we were in need of a sup-and-sit-down, we were drawn in by Illy’s innovative chrome chandelier of cups, and kept there by the thick, rich and delicious hot chocolate they served.  Yum, yum!

Speaking of which, I feel it’s time to put the kettle on...so I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you about the Musee d’Orsay and my love for Monet.  Now, where's the marshmallows?

Paris Post Une: The Moan Lisa (and that's not a typo!)

The Louvre.  Regally imposing.  Utterly huge.  Ridiculously busy, because it was the first Sunday of the month when entry is free.  Naively entered by me, because I didn’t anticipate (even though I’d been warned!) the mammoth size or how claustrophobically crowded it was going to be. 

Once inside the glass pyramid, an escalator takes you downstairs to the modern lobby, crisscrossed by other escalators rising and descending as they lead into the different wings.  A cafe, shop, ticket stall for the temporary exhibitions, and cloakroom share space along one side, while groups of people mill about between; some in groups waiting for guided tours, others striding out determinedly for the exhibit they aim to see, and most like Zoe and I, overwhelmed and unsure.  So, after a peek or two at the map and a mistaken journey on the wrong escalator, we headed for the Louvre’s most famous resident – The Mona Lisa. 

Now, I should ’fess up my bias straight away: I not one for portraits; I’m a landscape girl.  William Turner, Frederic Edwin Church, contemporary artist Lawrence Coulson, Edward Hopper, Monet*...  These are the painters who set my senses afire, not the inevitably dark palettes of portraiture.  But hey, as the saying goes, when in Rome...

So, there we are, Zoe and I, expecting to see the Mona Lisa in all her glory.  We knew it was going to be packed; we knew we wouldn’t have long to look at her.  From what I’d heard beforehand, I had it in my mind that she’d be in a kind of alcove, and I figured security guards would be there allowing maybe six to ten people to file past, taking her in for perhaps a minute or two at a time.  Well, I was right about the security guards.  But what Zoe and I didn’t expect was...

The scrum.  The scrum to see – well, photograph would be a more accurate description – the Mona Lisa had more pushing, shoving, knees and elbows than a typical rugby match.  The Mona Lisa is encased in glass with a cordon of about four feet in front of her, behind which the rabble jostle for position, cameras and phones and Ipads held aloft, flashing, clicking and snapping.  But not for a moment of appreciation and introspection in front of arguably the most famous painting of all time...  No, just for a photo of it.

Now, call me a Scrooge, but you can get that on Google Images back at home.  Where was the absorption, abandonment and adoration of the painting?  Where was the pause in front of the picture, allowing your human senses to take it in, your mind and imagination to find the story in the brushstrokes, the glory inside the frame?  Where was the wonderment, joy and experience?

Nope, this scrum was all about the pixels of the painting, not the painting itself.  I found it an artificial, soulless display and couldn’t wait to get away, while Zoe found it less so.  She’s the daughter of an artist and has dabbled herself, so for her (and perhaps many of that pushy mob that I’m being unfair to) it was about capturing the moment to share with her father, someone who knows what it is to paint.  With my artistry residing in my writing skills, I prefer a reciprocal exchange between art and myself; a more personal, introspective and authentic experience.  I admit now that I was unrealistic and naive to think I could have such access to such a world-famous and world-desired picture, and I accept that if you went, you’d probably have a different, better time...

...but, for me, the Mona Lisa will always be the Moan Lisa.


*More to come on Monet – we visited the Musee d’Orsay two days later and LOVED it!

Back in Blighty

Bonjour, hello, hope you’re well and apologies that I’ve not been about since I landed back in Blighty last Wednesday night...I’ve been relaxing, lazing and reading in the post-Paris days of my holiday, but am back to work and real-life tomorrow afternoon!

So, Paris.  Wow.  Did my friend Zoe and I enjoy our trip?  Absolutely (see Zoe’s take on it at her blog: http://craftygasheadzo.blogspot.com/ ).  Did I see many sights?  Loads.  Take a camera-full of photos?  Oh yes.  Was I inspired?  Most definitely.  Will I be sharing all this with you?  Certainly.  And, of course, the biggie – did I write?  Er...no, not as much as I’d hoped. 

I discovered that, while I took notes and thought a lot about the places we went and the things we saw, that I wasn’t able to write Novel Number Two scenes and sketches because I’ve not yet done a lot of character backgrounds.  It’s hard to envisage your character in a particular cafe and decide what blend of coffee they’d sip/conversation they’d have when you don’t actually know them yet...  It’s also difficult to spy which kind of French hunk they’re likely to be attracted to, choose which building they’ll live in, or figure out how long they’ll be staying in Paris after all.  I’d planned to work on my character backgrounds before going away, but life happens and it gets in the way sometimes – so instead I printed off what information I had, put it in a file and popped it in my case...and didn’t look at it again!  Oops.  But Paris itself was so inviting and involving, and then so tiring by the evenings that a cup of hot chocolate and a good gossip was all we had energy for.

And so, while I still aim to begin proper writing work on Novel Number Two by the New Year, I know now that I need to spend the next couple of months really working on my characters and the interactions, reactions and obstacles they’re going to have.  My poetry sequence may have to go on the backburner or I may be able to juggle a bit of both (jury’s still out on that one!), but I’ve been inspired enough by Paris and relaxed enough since I’ve got back to start socialising with the people who will drive my story...and once I’ve got to know them a bit better, I’ll be a good host and introduce you to a couple, promise!

But in the meantime, look out this week for Paris Posts – snippets and snatches from my five days in the chic capital.

Paris Bound

Just tomorrow to go, then I will be in Paris!  Saturday will be the first of five days soaking up the atmosphere, seeing the sights, and sitting in the cafes people-watching.  After each day full of culture, I’ll be writing in the evenings back at the hotel...and though this will be all to do with Novel Number Two, it probably won’t be narrative (though you never know!).  It’ll be a mix of observations and place descriptions, notes, character sketches, snatches of dialogue, the odd scene here and there, and any other inspiration that comes my way!  All this will flavour and texture Novel Number Two, as well as motivate, enthuse and invigorate me.

Forgive me, but I don’t want to say too much about Novel Number Two's title, plot and theme just yet, because I don’t want to jinx myself before beginning the actual narrative writing of it!  It’s my goal, though, to start the proper writing (i.e. the stuff that comes after the planning, note-taking and research) before New Year – so I’ll fill you in as I go!

You’ll be having a holiday from me while I’m away, as I’m not taking my laptop.  Now, I do know that the internet exists in other countries and that I can access it via wireless technology (see, I’m a technophobe no longer!), but I have the kind of clumsy bad luck that stabs me in the back.  If I take the laptop, Bad Luck will ensure that it somehow is deprogrammed by cabin pressure, crushed by a monolith of a suitcase, stolen in a case of cash-in-the-briefcase mistaken identity (imagine how gutted the thieves would be!), or dropped down a skyscraper staircase as I juggle the key to the hotel room...  You get the picture.

So, I’m playing it safe and going vintage for the week – notebook, journal and pens only!  When I get back, I promise I’ll post all things Paris...

Au revoir for now!

Rise of the Matchstick Men

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about the next poem in my sequence, based upon my stories and their reception at school.  I’ve read back through my schoolbooks and stories, taken notes and jotted down my teacher’s comments – and relived the frisson of creation caught up in these tales.  I remember different moments about each one, but they all bring back an early sense of Me as a Writer.  My plan is to incorporate something about each story/teacher comment/my response into the next poem...and along the way I unearthed Rebecca’s Matchstick Men – an example which could form an entire poem itself.

In Year Eight English, we had to write and create a book for a primary school child – a school trip brought us face to face with our assigned pupil, and we had to find out enough information to write a story just for them.  Inspiration struck and I took that literally – I made the real Rebecca a named character, and went on to make the kind of book that I (and perhaps not the real Rebecca, after all) would’ve liked to be given.  Rebecca’s Matchstick Men was, as my teacher wrote, a labour of love – but it was also a slap in the face too.  Twice.

Relive it with me: there I am, 12 years old and not very good at drawing, having to actually MAKE a book to give to someone else.  That you’re only as strong as your weakest link was a lesson long learned for me, so I turned my problem into the solution.  Story-wise, I was sorted: I already knew that I was writing about Rebecca spying on one of her drawings coming to life and the adventure it would have...but to make it easier on myself, I decided to use matchstick men and a cartoon-ish cat, whose doodle I’d been perfecting for years, as characters.  Simples!

So out came the posh plain paper, crisply folded, nestled inside clean white cardboard covers (no Blue Peter cereal boxes for me – this was a BOOK, don’cha know!).  The ruler was wielded, faint pencil lines keeping my (slowly and neatly) handwritten text straight.  Homework was never more conscientiously or lovingly done than this – I spent ages drawing each page, rubbing out and starting over again when the desk or the easel or the wastepaper basket the matchstick men fell into didn’t look quite right.  I used bubble writing for the title on the cover (why were we so obsessed with bubble writing at school?!), and even wrote a blurb and a dedication.

Now, I don’t remember handing it in late but somehow I missed the boat anyway – my teacher fell over himself to tell me how good my book was...but he’d already given a story written by another student to his publisher friend. 

S-l-a-p. 

I could’ve been, but wasn’t, published.  Ouch. 

Being published was all I had ever wanted (and still is), and no matter how good my book was, someone else achieved that validation instead.  I don’t remember who this student was, whether they liked writing and longed to be published as much as me – so if I sound like a bad loser (which I probably am!), please accept my apologies, particularly if someone out there knows who this student was! 

Now, mature and reasonable Adult Me knows that: a) the other book could have been just as good, or probably better than mine; b) it could all have just been a matter of timing (premature marking, Mr Teacher?!); c) that the ‘publisher’ may not have been one of credibility or envy (or might just have been!); and d) that not being published then didn’t mean that my writing wasn’t good enough – or that I will never, ever get published.

But the slap still smarts.

My cheek is warming up, so let’s have the second s-l-a-p:

The real Rebecca didn’t like it.  Or at least, that was my perception.  Interpretation, probably.  And most likely an unfair one.  I remember her being rather indifferent when I gave it to her, almost blasé and unimpressed – but then she did ask why didn’t her book have flaps in it like someone else’s (I don’t rip off Spot the dog), so it may just have not been to her taste.  But to me, already tender and prickly, it was as if she didn’t appreciate my effort or love my story – and that feeling undermined my sense of self, which is a shame.  And sad.  Let’s be adult-fair, the real Rebecca may have thought it was ok but that it didn’t quite match her own (perhaps unbridled) expectations; and she may even have grown to like the story – it’d be lovely to think that she came to love and cherish it, but who knows?  This the eternal dichotomy of the writer and the reader – and it was my first taste, so who can blame me if it stung?

I am painting an unfair picture of the reception of Rebecca’s Matchstick Men – my teacher loved it, raved about it in his comments and awarded me an Effort Award, upon which the headmaster added ‘Thank you for this outstanding piece of work.’  My dad was well proud of me too (though he always is, bless him) – and the older and wiser Me is gutted that I didn’t feel success, achievement and satisfaction...

...so I’d like to recreate the book.  Just for myself, you understand – I don’t think it’d be a story that would sell (kids today can probably plug their brains into an app that draws for them, rather than paint at the kitchen table), and I’ve not read enough picture books/books for younger readers to know if it would even fit in the market.  But Rebecca’s Matchstick Men is a watershed for me, a moment of triumph in my early writerly ambitions tempered by disappointment of a critical readership – and I’d like my own copy.  Of course, it needs some work (12 year old Me had dealt with the set-up and exposition excellently, but woefully underplayed the points of tension and resolution), and I’ll have to refine my matchstick-sketching skills...but it’s worth it, just for my own bookshelf.

So, pass me the pencil, please.  Now, matchstick men I can handle, but how did that cat-doodle go...?!

A Tribute

I’ve been absent from blog-world* because my dog died a week ago today :0(    And I don’t do emoticons in formal work, so you know I’m truly sad and lost.  Her name was Kye and she was a collie cross with a lurcher-cross-Alsatian – which makes her sound like a bit like a chimera, but she wasn't - she was lush: collie-sized and collie-eared, with a soft but wavy coat like a lurcher, and the muzzle and bark of an Alsatian.  She was 12 years old and had suffered a series of strokes in the last 6 months – and the final one was at 6 a.m. last Sunday.

Anyone who has a pet knows how they fill your home with their presence and personality – and anyone who has lost a pet knows how empty and less home is without them.  I shan’t bang on about how upset my dad, his girlfriend and I are (because it's self-explanatory to any animal lover) – instead I’d like to celebrate Kye with a tribute.      

Kye – the softest woofer in the west

You were russet red like a fox when we first saw you, nosing against the fence at the RSPCA, begging to come home with us.  Little did we know your coat would darken so much as the years passed – or that you’d still be begging us to come home, yapping like crazy each time we went out!  But without you, Kye, I’d still be terrorised by the sight of a dog [and yes, it really was that bad] – your loving, placid and docile ways melted any hesitation I had, burning away any remaining fear like the sun over morning mist.  Your amber eyes longed for constant attention, and you were never happier than when being smoothed or fussed or talked to...except in your younger days, when your ball or bone was a constant playmate, and you’d get so excited that a volcanic tremor would pass through your body as you shook yourself, excitement like lava uncontained.

We nicknamed you Miss Barker, for you were rather vocal...but then, so am I, so we were a right family pack!  And just like Dad, you were fair-weather: hated the rain (though when wet, your fur would go all cute and crinkly, as if I’d crimped it - lush!), and didn’t like going out in the cold and dark.  We all love a good treat, and your favourite was a bit of yoghurt, the creamier the better; like a canine Winnie-the-Poo, you'd snuffle your snout right down the the bottom of the pot, licking it clean.  You always made us laugh when you did this; and we'd marvel at how, when eating normal, boring dog-food, you'd sniff each biscuit out from the other and eat them one by one, as if saving the best till last.

Our cats loved you too – Cleo would curl up in the chair with you, no matter how much room there wasn’t; and Gizmo would hunch up, all big black eyes and mischief, waiting to pounce on you as you came trotting in from the back garden.  You and Giz missed Cleo when she passed, and now Giz misses you too.  We all do.

I thank you, Kye, for your love, devotion and quirks – there will never be another dog like you.  Enjoy playing with Cleo up there in the big blue endless sky – I’ll see you there someday.  Love you always.

*Hopefully, normal blog-service will resume shortly  – as you can understand, I’ve lost my way with writing recently, what with the laryngitis-debacle and now losing my dog; but it’s 3 weeks till my Paris trip and thus the research-beginning of Novel Number Two...so I must get myself together!

I'm Very Behind...

With most things at the moment, to be fair.  But I finally have a voice...and it’s hung around for a few days, so things are back to normal in Deb-world – yea!

So, me being behind.  I’ve always been a late starter (was born 2 days late as I was busy having a lie-in...which I still love doing!) and I don’t mind this – but I know I’m really behind in the loving-the-vampire stakes (no pun intended – honest).  No, I’m not talking Twilight – I got about three-quarters into the book but I found the writing facile and the story predictable, and watching the films...well, let’s just say that, for me, Robert Pattinson looks too drippy to be dishy, let alone believable (cue reader’s argumentative screams!).  No, I’m talking...The Vampire Diaries.

I know it’s about to come back for its third series and therefore I’m late in the game to jump on the bandwagon (is that enough clichés for the teenage genre, do you think?!), but I’m halfway through the first series on DVD (courtesy of Sarah – thank you, and remember to ask Mother for the second season, won’t you – mwah!) and LOVING IT.

Of course the boys are hot and the girls are sassy, everyone looks amazing in what they’re wearing, and no teenager gets ID’d in a bar...but it’s the quality of the writing that’s got me.  Intrigue galore with plenty of hooks, even more twists making you question quite what is the truth, and strong, flawed yet likeable characters (plus the girls kick butt, and I’m a feisty chick of the Buffy, The Vampire Slayer generation, don’t cha know!)  By coincidence, I’ve also started watching the almost-as-good The Secret Circle, which is about teenage witches...and is also based on books written by L J Smith, the same author who wrote The Vampire Diaries novels.  Maybe I should read them...  But what if it distorts or disappoints my enjoyment of the TV series?  Hmm...

Talking of books disappointing the films...  Who hasn’t seen Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula and (even if they didn’t like it) been impressed – and maybe a little scared – by the lavish Gothic Horror of it...and then read Bram Stoker’s book and been let down???  Or was that just me?  I shan’t spoil it for those who haven’t yet read it or slate it for those who love it, especially as I can hear a vampire’s seductive whisper luring me back to the TV...  Besides, I have to thank Bram Stoker, for without him there would be no Dracula and therefore no TV vampires as we know and love them...!