Friday, December 05, 2008

Back in Paris…again

I'm so at loose ends. I had a great time in England. First, with Alicia and her family--who were gracious hosts (to both Kent and me). We played with the kids, slept late and helped a little bit with cooking a fabulous and 1970's accurate Thanksgiving meal. Delicious. I even brought a can of the jellied cranberry stuff, found at a shop in France. Kent really liked it.

What can I say? I wish I were back in England and able to spend more of my last days in Europe with Kent. But it's impossible. He can't come here (it's complicated) and since he has no fixed address (yet), I can't go there. (There's only so long I can impose the two of us on my friends.) I'll try for another visit before going back to the States but if I think about it too much, it makes me sad.

Kent and I spent a couple of days on our own in London. We walked around quite a bit despite the cold and rain. On one walk he said, "You can tell me about your writing on the wander."

I said, "My writing?" He looked at me, puzzled. "I haven't been doing any writing…except the blog."

"Only the blog?"

That's right, buddy. I talk a good game but I don't do shit. The look of surprise on his face might have touched me more than all the kind words he's ever spoken. He said, "So, we can figure something out."

And, as we walked, he proceeded to encourage me to write a crime/heist/mystery thriller partially based on an idea of his. As he talked, I chimed in with alternative plot ideas and, eventually, I was doing most of the talking, plotting the story through to the end in a way that I, an avid reader of the mystery/crime genre, would find satisfying.

Of course, I've always fancied that I would write something literary. But why? Given that I'll probably never get published, all that matters is that I write something.

Now, have I started on the idea Kent helped me with? No. But it's only been a day since I got back. If were to actually sit and put words on a page…a terrifying thought…I would feel good, very good, and I'd find out if the idea has legs.

The future is so murky right now. It's hard for me to face it. I leave Paris on December 27. Work starts a week after I get back to the States. I have little things to do (like find a cardboard box or two to pack and ship home early), but I'm floating free. I'm afraid I'll waste most of the next three weeks and spend them sitting and knitting, missing Kent, numbing myself with dvds and occasionally going to see a film. Whence the Louvre or the Rodin? What is wrong with me?

Today, I'm leaving the house for a good long walk (and a movie, not a museum). I'm leaving right now. I won't come back until it's dark. I'll buy something for supper. I'll spend an hour writing when I get home. I'll bring my notebook and write if I feel inspired. I'd do something.

Grateful for: time.

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