A few years ago, I embarked on a mission to become a published writer. I'd always had the dream in my head. When I was 9 years old, I wrote a query to the Press Telegram's Action Line column and saw my question in print. I was hooked from, well, probably even before then. I've always been a writer. And, quite separately, I've always wanted to be in print.
I say so many quasi-meaningless things to myself, all of which I realize are not complete sentences. If only I'd really tried early on. If only I'd gone to New York when I was in my twenties. If only I'd said different things when Peter Ridder called me to ask what my career aspirations were. Yes. I had chances. And I handled all of them poorly. Now I'm a 54-year-old woman with a handful of ideas and dreams long turned to mist.
The way the publishing market has turned, no one is ever going to publish me. Ever. I'm a good writer. A woman of ideas. However, I'm not marketably original. Not even artsy-fartzy original. No one is interested in my work, and I've come to accept that.
Even my closest friend hates when I ask him to read one of my pieces. I can see him set his bodily frame when I ask him to listen as I read something. His customary response is something akin to, "Okay. Thank you for sharing that with me."
Shit.
Am I really that bad?
Apparently so.
So, for the first few years of my life, people praised me for my writing abilities. I mean from the 5th grade through junior college, people were saying, wow, girl, you've got something special. Now that I'm growing ungracefully old, my writing is an embarrassment, and I seldom tell people that I do it. Being a bad writer has become a cliche, a club I belong to.
But...
I'm not going to ever stop doing it.
I'm just never
ever
going to show anything I write to anyone
ever again
(well, maybe if you ask)
no.
not ever again.
I'm so sorry for all those who have suffered through my writings in the past. I really thought I was good. I really thought this was my "calling."
Sheesh!
What a ninny I am.
How self-serious and ridiculous.
Okay.
Basta.
Ciao!
And thank you for indulging me all this time.
Go find something better to do.
Many better options for reading, I'm sure.
Ciao.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Anne Patchett's State of Wonder
State of Wonder is the story of Marina Singh, who enters the jungle with reluctance but a sense of purpose. Marina needs to find out the details surrounding the death of her co-worker, who preceded her to the Amazon. His death was announced in a letter from the doctor on site, stating simply that he had died of a fever.
The South American jungle she enters is not so much chaotic, but rather a place dancing in perfect step to music only it can hear. The doctor on site, Dr. Anneck Swenson, bends her head to yet another tune. Swenson presents a wall to any purpose other than her own. She is direct yet cryptic, confrontational yet indifferent, rejecting yet needy. Despite Marina's efforts to get a bead on her, she remains slippery to the end.
Marina acts, at every turn, in a way I hope I would act in her circumstance. She resists Swenson's attempts to control her, while she assimilates herself into the local culture with grace and joy. The natives strip her and re-cloth her, braid her hair, offer her the flavors of their world, and she takes it all in with openness and trust. A mirror to her openness and trust is Easter, a deaf boy who lives among them also as a foreigner. Easter hails from a community even deeper in the Amazon, a savage, cannibalistic group who live along an obscure finger of the river. Soon after they meet, Marina and Easter fuse into a single soul. Light, open, loving.
Through a fluke, Swenson learns that the dead doctor isn't dead at all. After imbibing ritualistic hallucinogens, he wandered into the jungle and was taken in by the feared cannibals. Swenson seems to regard this news as little more than a dropped stitch, but Marina and Easter take the boat into the jungle and find the missing scientist. Of course, the cannibals want something in return for the doctor. Recognizing him as one of their own, they want Easter. The confrontation is horrible.
Okay, I was trying not to draw parallels to Heart of Darkness, because the connection is too obvious. But here it is. Here's the confrontation with the inner depths, and Easter, not a creepy Doctor Kurtz, is the one sacrificed. Easter isn't killed, he's delivered to a place where he will dwell, against his will, forever seeking escape. Easter, the embodiment of innocence, is placed in the most primal, uncontrolled tendril of the jungle. Will he be ravaged? Will he transform those around him? I will chew on this for a while.
Marina returns, with her co-worker, to her mid-western existence and leaves us to wonder what she now carries within her from the Amazon and whether it will allow her to return.
The South American jungle she enters is not so much chaotic, but rather a place dancing in perfect step to music only it can hear. The doctor on site, Dr. Anneck Swenson, bends her head to yet another tune. Swenson presents a wall to any purpose other than her own. She is direct yet cryptic, confrontational yet indifferent, rejecting yet needy. Despite Marina's efforts to get a bead on her, she remains slippery to the end.
Marina acts, at every turn, in a way I hope I would act in her circumstance. She resists Swenson's attempts to control her, while she assimilates herself into the local culture with grace and joy. The natives strip her and re-cloth her, braid her hair, offer her the flavors of their world, and she takes it all in with openness and trust. A mirror to her openness and trust is Easter, a deaf boy who lives among them also as a foreigner. Easter hails from a community even deeper in the Amazon, a savage, cannibalistic group who live along an obscure finger of the river. Soon after they meet, Marina and Easter fuse into a single soul. Light, open, loving.
Through a fluke, Swenson learns that the dead doctor isn't dead at all. After imbibing ritualistic hallucinogens, he wandered into the jungle and was taken in by the feared cannibals. Swenson seems to regard this news as little more than a dropped stitch, but Marina and Easter take the boat into the jungle and find the missing scientist. Of course, the cannibals want something in return for the doctor. Recognizing him as one of their own, they want Easter. The confrontation is horrible.
Okay, I was trying not to draw parallels to Heart of Darkness, because the connection is too obvious. But here it is. Here's the confrontation with the inner depths, and Easter, not a creepy Doctor Kurtz, is the one sacrificed. Easter isn't killed, he's delivered to a place where he will dwell, against his will, forever seeking escape. Easter, the embodiment of innocence, is placed in the most primal, uncontrolled tendril of the jungle. Will he be ravaged? Will he transform those around him? I will chew on this for a while.
Marina returns, with her co-worker, to her mid-western existence and leaves us to wonder what she now carries within her from the Amazon and whether it will allow her to return.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Voltaire Gem
I'm re-reading Candide, and it's just as fresh and wonderful as I remember. What a great little masterpiece. Here's one of my favorite parts:
The man of good taste explained quite clearly how a play could arouse some interest, yet have no merit. He proved in a few words that it is not enough to bring in one or two of those situations which are found in novels or two of those situations which are found in novels and which always captivate an audience; but that a dramatist must be original without being eccentric, that he must be often sublime and always natural, that he must know the human heart and make it speak, be a great poet without letting any of his characters sound like a poet, have a perfect command of his language without ever sacrificing meaning to rhyme. "A playwright who doesn't observe these rules," he added, "may turn out one or two tragedies that will be applauded in the theater, but he'll never be regarded as a good writer.
The man of good taste explained quite clearly how a play could arouse some interest, yet have no merit. He proved in a few words that it is not enough to bring in one or two of those situations which are found in novels or two of those situations which are found in novels and which always captivate an audience; but that a dramatist must be original without being eccentric, that he must be often sublime and always natural, that he must know the human heart and make it speak, be a great poet without letting any of his characters sound like a poet, have a perfect command of his language without ever sacrificing meaning to rhyme. "A playwright who doesn't observe these rules," he added, "may turn out one or two tragedies that will be applauded in the theater, but he'll never be regarded as a good writer.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Fictionalized Life
I have always written fiction. The first story I remember writing was when I was seven years old. I've had some long dry periods, but I have written fiction my whole life.
I was just thinking about how everyone does...create fiction, that is. If you're a mother, you've been fictionalized by your kids. My kids have created stories of who I am and what I am to them. They're not interested in knowing me. Or maybe they are, but maintaining the fiction overrules getting to know me because the fiction serves a vital purpose in their day-to-day realities. I'm saying that again because it seems so contradictory but isn't. The fiction upholds what they believe to be reality. My younger daughter, especially, uses fictionalized accounts of me to make the drama of her life a tactile experience to herself and anyone who will listen to her. The result is that every time I see her, I feel like a lamb tied to a stake. There are reasons I don't try to see her.
My mother, rather than talk to me, fictionalized who I was to exonerate herself from taking responsibility for the fictional me. I, in turn, fictionalized my mother in an attempt to explain why she acted the way she did.
My conclusion is that all is fiction. We never really know anyone. Where memory is concerned, the brain is a flawed organ.
I was just thinking about how everyone does...create fiction, that is. If you're a mother, you've been fictionalized by your kids. My kids have created stories of who I am and what I am to them. They're not interested in knowing me. Or maybe they are, but maintaining the fiction overrules getting to know me because the fiction serves a vital purpose in their day-to-day realities. I'm saying that again because it seems so contradictory but isn't. The fiction upholds what they believe to be reality. My younger daughter, especially, uses fictionalized accounts of me to make the drama of her life a tactile experience to herself and anyone who will listen to her. The result is that every time I see her, I feel like a lamb tied to a stake. There are reasons I don't try to see her.
My mother, rather than talk to me, fictionalized who I was to exonerate herself from taking responsibility for the fictional me. I, in turn, fictionalized my mother in an attempt to explain why she acted the way she did.
My conclusion is that all is fiction. We never really know anyone. Where memory is concerned, the brain is a flawed organ.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Lobster Tales
I always wonder what it will take to be published. The writer's groups and workshop leaders have traditionally been so discouraging. When I outlined the plot of my unpublished YA novel, Giving It Over, someone piped up and said that no one wants to read what it was like in the olden days. The story takes place in 1973, the year abortion became legal, and deals with the subject of teen pregnancy.
Yesterday, I had one of my classic pajama days, lots of tea, lots of cat time, pajamas, maybe a snack and a book. I recently read a review about a new book by Stewart O'Nan. I hadn't read anything by him, so I looked for him in the library and grabbed a copy of Last Night at the Lobster. The book seemed a perfect pajama day book, something that I could read in a day. And this is what I read yesterday.
Last Night at the Lobster was engaging, the handful of characters were well-developed and the pacing was perfect. Yet the story is not a big one, no one's earth is shattered. It reminded me of the sad clown, or Carol Burnett's washerwoman. Last Night at the Lobster is the story of a manager's last day at a closing Red Lobster restaurant. It's just before Christmas, and the restaurant should be packed with last minute shoppers, but a blizzard reduces the dinner clientele to a forlorn couple making their way to an unknown destination. The characters are restaurant employees and customers. The story takes place in this single day.
For Manny, the manager, the story is one of a man who has no control of anything in his life. He's an anonymous cog in a corporate wheel, dedicated, conscientious, and hard-working. With his employees, he's fair, thoughtful and generous. Every action Manny takes is an effort to do what is right, and the result is nothing. If I were to sum up the story's message, it is that integrity is worthless in this day. The corporation doesn't see Manny, the employees don't respect him, the customers represent the ugliness of American entitlement and fling at him their outrage for every minor transgression. Yet he conducts himself with professionalism to the end.
An enjoyable read, but, as a writer, I find myself thinking, if I'd written this book, the workshop leaders and writer's group participants and anyone else I deem to share my writing with, would say, yes, but... Yes. But no one cares about a manager at a Red Lobster. Well, that's rather the point, though, isn't it? Every contact I've had with agents sand blasts the same message into my forehead. The book must be marketable. It must be something an agent sees as a money-making proposition. It must be a worthy project that a publishing house wants to take on, must generate enthusiasm and excitement. How was Lobster pitched? How does a book like this get into print? Engaging as it is, I can't imagine a agent or a publisher doing cartwheels at the thought of how many copies this would sell.
Lobster isn't trying to be a blockbuster novel; it isn't trying to be anything other than what it is, a pleasurable read on a Sunday afternoon. We all have dozens of stories we could tell about endings of things that were destined to be short-lived. But who would publish them? Lobster is a story of our time. It addresses the disposable mindset of American culture and may even cause readers to consider that there are dramas playing out in all kinds of unsuspected places. The subject matter is commonplace. We've all seen, if not eaten at a Red Lobster. I even know someone who managed one a long while back. The recognizable signposts, Red Lobster, Olive Garden, shopping mall, all ground us in the story's familiar setting. I found myself filling with gratitude that I'd escaped the horrors of working in food service or retail. But most of all, I found myself, once again, wondering about the wheels that turn the publishing industry.
Yesterday, I had one of my classic pajama days, lots of tea, lots of cat time, pajamas, maybe a snack and a book. I recently read a review about a new book by Stewart O'Nan. I hadn't read anything by him, so I looked for him in the library and grabbed a copy of Last Night at the Lobster. The book seemed a perfect pajama day book, something that I could read in a day. And this is what I read yesterday.
Last Night at the Lobster was engaging, the handful of characters were well-developed and the pacing was perfect. Yet the story is not a big one, no one's earth is shattered. It reminded me of the sad clown, or Carol Burnett's washerwoman. Last Night at the Lobster is the story of a manager's last day at a closing Red Lobster restaurant. It's just before Christmas, and the restaurant should be packed with last minute shoppers, but a blizzard reduces the dinner clientele to a forlorn couple making their way to an unknown destination. The characters are restaurant employees and customers. The story takes place in this single day.
For Manny, the manager, the story is one of a man who has no control of anything in his life. He's an anonymous cog in a corporate wheel, dedicated, conscientious, and hard-working. With his employees, he's fair, thoughtful and generous. Every action Manny takes is an effort to do what is right, and the result is nothing. If I were to sum up the story's message, it is that integrity is worthless in this day. The corporation doesn't see Manny, the employees don't respect him, the customers represent the ugliness of American entitlement and fling at him their outrage for every minor transgression. Yet he conducts himself with professionalism to the end.
An enjoyable read, but, as a writer, I find myself thinking, if I'd written this book, the workshop leaders and writer's group participants and anyone else I deem to share my writing with, would say, yes, but... Yes. But no one cares about a manager at a Red Lobster. Well, that's rather the point, though, isn't it? Every contact I've had with agents sand blasts the same message into my forehead. The book must be marketable. It must be something an agent sees as a money-making proposition. It must be a worthy project that a publishing house wants to take on, must generate enthusiasm and excitement. How was Lobster pitched? How does a book like this get into print? Engaging as it is, I can't imagine a agent or a publisher doing cartwheels at the thought of how many copies this would sell.
Lobster isn't trying to be a blockbuster novel; it isn't trying to be anything other than what it is, a pleasurable read on a Sunday afternoon. We all have dozens of stories we could tell about endings of things that were destined to be short-lived. But who would publish them? Lobster is a story of our time. It addresses the disposable mindset of American culture and may even cause readers to consider that there are dramas playing out in all kinds of unsuspected places. The subject matter is commonplace. We've all seen, if not eaten at a Red Lobster. I even know someone who managed one a long while back. The recognizable signposts, Red Lobster, Olive Garden, shopping mall, all ground us in the story's familiar setting. I found myself filling with gratitude that I'd escaped the horrors of working in food service or retail. But most of all, I found myself, once again, wondering about the wheels that turn the publishing industry.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
The Turquoise Ledge by Leslie Marmon Silko
The Turquoise Ledge by Leslie Marmon Silko isn't a recounting of a life through linear time. This memoir stands apart from other memoirs and redefines the genre. Marmon Silko takes me into her private, inner world and shows me how the world looks through her eyes. I've never read a memoir more intimate and personal.
As I read, I fall into the rhythm of her habits and daily routines. I see magic and mythology, the cycles of severe desert weather and the travails of the arroyo near her ranch. I also see through the eyes of a woman who possesses a deep love and respect for the earth and all living things she shares it with.
I've read dozens of memoirs, but this is the only one I've read where, upon completion, I feel as though I know the writer. With other memoirs, I finish knowing if I share experiences in common with the writer. With Marmon Silko's, I know something much more valuable. I know where I share a way of seeing and revering the world.
As I read, I fall into the rhythm of her habits and daily routines. I see magic and mythology, the cycles of severe desert weather and the travails of the arroyo near her ranch. I also see through the eyes of a woman who possesses a deep love and respect for the earth and all living things she shares it with.
I've read dozens of memoirs, but this is the only one I've read where, upon completion, I feel as though I know the writer. With other memoirs, I finish knowing if I share experiences in common with the writer. With Marmon Silko's, I know something much more valuable. I know where I share a way of seeing and revering the world.
Just Kids by Patti Smith
Just Kids by Patti Smith is a rich journey into the relationship between Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. More than that, though, the book takes me through a fascinating period of time in New York, when Warhol's Factory was on the wane and the glamor of those days turned to pastel. Even in pastel, the color and excitement jumps off the page. Amphetamines fade and are replaced by pure, natural adrenaline. Hendricks, Joplin and Morrison each sing a tune and flash a smile before joining (or maybe founding) the 27 club. Many more ghosts join the permanent residents of the Chelsea Hotel.
I get to see Smith and Mapplethorpe go through years of being broke. They rise from homelessness to obscurity and eventually to fame.
I wish I knew whether Smith utilized a ghost writer for this memoir. The writing is crisp and full of flavor.
I get to see Smith and Mapplethorpe go through years of being broke. They rise from homelessness to obscurity and eventually to fame.
I wish I knew whether Smith utilized a ghost writer for this memoir. The writing is crisp and full of flavor.
Memoir Reading and Writing
I've read a lot of memoirs over the past few years. For a while, I even dabbled at writing one, a sort of set the record straight document. While some fiction contains elements of life experience, writing a memoir relies upon one's fiction writing talents. When I read memoirs, I know, for example, that the writer is not remembering past conversations verbatim. Some license is taken in recording details, and I, as the reader, understand that what I am reading is being delivered in a manner to maximize dramatic effect. Memoir differs from autobiography in the delivery. Memoir is a story, autobiography is a recording of a sequence of events.
As I worked on my memoir, I attended some workshops and read some books to help facilitate the process. I learned a few things. First, a great many people believe that their stories are extraordinary and would have a wide appeal. We are right in that our stories are all extraordinary. Every life holds magic and wonder and transcendence. But we are almost always wrong about the wide appeal part. After I swam way out into the middle of the icy lake of my own story, and a little voice whispered, "Yes, Nancy. But what's the point?" It's a humbling event when one can't answer that question. What is the point, indeed. I keep hoping that some day there will be one. In the meantime, the memoir sleeps in a REM stage.
Second, where critique groups are concerned, submitting a memoir to a critique group places an unfair burden on the group. Group members find themselves in a position where they risk criticizing someone's life rather than the content or delivery. Readers can't exactly say that the story is not credible. In the end, I withdrew it as a project from my critique group because I felt as though my readers saw that I was soliciting feedback on a document of uncontrolled self-disclosure, when what I wanted to know was how it read as a story. Asking a critique group to read a memoir just ain't fair.
There's something so pleasurable about reading a well-written memoir, though. Getting lost in a life, and knowing that it isn't fiction is somehow more engrossing. I've read many wonderful memoirs in recent years. The Color of Water, The Glass Castle, Living to Tell the Tale, Reading Lolita in Tehran, The Warrior Woman are some of my favorites. The pair, Autobiography of a Face and Truth in Beauty especially captivated me as a story of a life and then another memoir of a friendship that looked on from a perspective that revealed a completely different story.
I've read many others, some I found over indulgent and bulging with ego. But enough great ones are around to keep me interested in the genre.
A New York Times Book Review reviewer published an article in recent months, stating that memoir is a useless genre. The writer was so scathing and pompous that he implied the only people more naive and boring than the memoir writers are the people shallow enough to read them. I believe that there are a great many stories worth telling and worth reading. Sure, we can flaunt our intellectual prowess by pigeon-holing them: The abused child memoir, The incest survivor, The adopted child, The teen pregnancy, The alcoholic treatment memoir, The coming out as a gay person memoir.. I've read memoirs by people who fit each of these categories. But I'm not jaded enough to believe that stories owning these natures are boring because someone else has told them. A story well-told will always stand on its own and need not strain to circumvent worn trails.
So, I'll keep reading memoirs. And maybe in the quiet of my office, I will keep a silent vigil over my own sleeping manuscript.
As I worked on my memoir, I attended some workshops and read some books to help facilitate the process. I learned a few things. First, a great many people believe that their stories are extraordinary and would have a wide appeal. We are right in that our stories are all extraordinary. Every life holds magic and wonder and transcendence. But we are almost always wrong about the wide appeal part. After I swam way out into the middle of the icy lake of my own story, and a little voice whispered, "Yes, Nancy. But what's the point?" It's a humbling event when one can't answer that question. What is the point, indeed. I keep hoping that some day there will be one. In the meantime, the memoir sleeps in a REM stage.
Second, where critique groups are concerned, submitting a memoir to a critique group places an unfair burden on the group. Group members find themselves in a position where they risk criticizing someone's life rather than the content or delivery. Readers can't exactly say that the story is not credible. In the end, I withdrew it as a project from my critique group because I felt as though my readers saw that I was soliciting feedback on a document of uncontrolled self-disclosure, when what I wanted to know was how it read as a story. Asking a critique group to read a memoir just ain't fair.
There's something so pleasurable about reading a well-written memoir, though. Getting lost in a life, and knowing that it isn't fiction is somehow more engrossing. I've read many wonderful memoirs in recent years. The Color of Water, The Glass Castle, Living to Tell the Tale, Reading Lolita in Tehran, The Warrior Woman are some of my favorites. The pair, Autobiography of a Face and Truth in Beauty especially captivated me as a story of a life and then another memoir of a friendship that looked on from a perspective that revealed a completely different story.
I've read many others, some I found over indulgent and bulging with ego. But enough great ones are around to keep me interested in the genre.
A New York Times Book Review reviewer published an article in recent months, stating that memoir is a useless genre. The writer was so scathing and pompous that he implied the only people more naive and boring than the memoir writers are the people shallow enough to read them. I believe that there are a great many stories worth telling and worth reading. Sure, we can flaunt our intellectual prowess by pigeon-holing them: The abused child memoir, The incest survivor, The adopted child, The teen pregnancy, The alcoholic treatment memoir, The coming out as a gay person memoir.. I've read memoirs by people who fit each of these categories. But I'm not jaded enough to believe that stories owning these natures are boring because someone else has told them. A story well-told will always stand on its own and need not strain to circumvent worn trails.
So, I'll keep reading memoirs. And maybe in the quiet of my office, I will keep a silent vigil over my own sleeping manuscript.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Seeking a Clean, Well-lighted Place
I once read somewhere that a person lives beyond the span of his life up until the point when the last person who remembers him dies. If I am alive, and no one knows or remembers me, does that mean that I'm already essentially dead? Have I lived a completely purposeless life? I was hit with this today when an old friend responded to an email I sent, saying she had no memory of the times we'd spent together. If she'd been a passing acquaintance, I might have shrugged it off. But I considered her to be a close friend during my college years. We've put a lot of miles on the road since then, but still.
I have carried love in my heart for so many people I've known over the years. Just because they're no longer in my life doesn't mean I've stopped loving them. And I remember the times we've had together. No, it seems that I've carried all of this and have always been essentially invisible. Unremarkable. Mr. Cellophane. This may all seem very self-pitying, but allow me a moment of sadness. I've retreated from life, maybe hoping someone would say, "Don't go." No one did. I faded into everyone's past and then from their memories, leaving no trace, no residue, no vapor.
This comes to me now because I've had the colossal arrogance to want to be a published writer. But look! I'm not even memorable in my life. Where could I possibly get off thinking that I might write some memorable fiction? I want to be the kind of writer who walks on nails, the kind who stands on the edge of a precipice in billowy clothes, wind whipping me from all sides, arms outstretched. But I can't find the precipice on mapquest. It's springtime. I should go to Paris. Just get on a plane, take a couple weeks off. Just go. Right now. Who cares if it's crowded? I can sit in cafes, with scribblings before me. Lose myself in the Louvre. Wag my tongue at gargoyles. Visit graves.
I'm looking into the possibility of going to Paris and Florence in December. I've needed to see Paris forever, and I really want to wander the streets of Florence again. How far does a woman have to go to find a clean, well-lighted place?
I have carried love in my heart for so many people I've known over the years. Just because they're no longer in my life doesn't mean I've stopped loving them. And I remember the times we've had together. No, it seems that I've carried all of this and have always been essentially invisible. Unremarkable. Mr. Cellophane. This may all seem very self-pitying, but allow me a moment of sadness. I've retreated from life, maybe hoping someone would say, "Don't go." No one did. I faded into everyone's past and then from their memories, leaving no trace, no residue, no vapor.
This comes to me now because I've had the colossal arrogance to want to be a published writer. But look! I'm not even memorable in my life. Where could I possibly get off thinking that I might write some memorable fiction? I want to be the kind of writer who walks on nails, the kind who stands on the edge of a precipice in billowy clothes, wind whipping me from all sides, arms outstretched. But I can't find the precipice on mapquest. It's springtime. I should go to Paris. Just get on a plane, take a couple weeks off. Just go. Right now. Who cares if it's crowded? I can sit in cafes, with scribblings before me. Lose myself in the Louvre. Wag my tongue at gargoyles. Visit graves.
I'm looking into the possibility of going to Paris and Florence in December. I've needed to see Paris forever, and I really want to wander the streets of Florence again. How far does a woman have to go to find a clean, well-lighted place?
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