Brave, new World

Four weeks have passed since the beginning of ‘Deconfinement’ – the lifting of restrictions in France. Last week, June 2nd began the second phase—the most exciting being that we can now travel anywhere within France. Many services are open. Restaurants can open but only their terraces. Table must be 2 meters apart and everyone, servers and clients alike, are to wear masks. In many ways, when one goes outside, it is as if the Confinement never happened. On May 11, the first day of Deconfinement, workers descended upon the only house in this area. They built scaffolding to the roof of the four story home. Translated that means, there has been LOUD noise every single day since, starting at 7:30am and going to 1pm when they break for lunch. Afternoons are quieter.

Parisians enjoying sunshine at Bois de Boulogne. Very few masks and definitely more than 10 people in groups all over the grass.

In my arrondissement, the majority of people are wearing masks. Very few people are making an effort to move the required 2 mètres when passing each other on the street. The queues at Hyperstores and Supermarkets have disappeared and delivery is fast and efficient. I went into a Galleries Lafayette in the 15th a week ago and at noon on a Wednesday, it was practically empty.

I’ve spent some time being judgmental about people not following the suggested guidelines but lately it seems like a waste of energy. The guideline for the over the 65 year group is not to change much, stay at home, stay healthy. Today, the statistics in France are 153,977 cases. 30,000 dead. And, as I was reminded yesterday, the published deaths are hospitals and clinics only. It’s not known how many more deaths happened at home. But one can assume the numbers would be much higher.

Brave souls wearing masks at the Ranelagh metro

Thirteen days ago, I woke up to photos of Minneapolis on fire. I thought to myself “and so it starts”, having no idea how right I was. That morning, what struck me was the pentup energy of two months in lockdown. Fairly quickly, I got the backstory of George Floyd, his murder and it being the final straw for so many Americans of decades of Having frightened gown white men treating anyone who doesn’t look like them, as if they were vermin to stomp out or worse ‘invisible’. The anger has galvanized people in a way that I haven’t seen since the 60’s when I was in university. Here in Paris, people are willing to risk the fines of not social distancing and maybe risking their lives to join in solidarity with protesters around the world. I feel so proud of my fellow Americans. Yesterday, I read in the Times that a few Republican politicians are standing up and saying no more psychopath bully in the White House. They have committed to vote for Joe Biden. It hardly seems real. Four months ago, there was nothing of substance left of the Republican Party. Today, some brave souls are willing to go on record saying “He does not speak for me.”

Protests in support of George Floyd and police brutality in Paris.

My little struggles in the 16eme seem so minuscule and unimportant. But considering I’m a writer and most of my day is spent churning out three blogs a week, writing requested articles in support of my book Saving Sara: A Memoir of Food Addiction, and my volunteer work for various organizations, the fact that I have been pecking and poling away on an iPad for 5 weeks while waiting for my new computer seems huge. My new computer that I had ordered with an American keyboard arrived last Wednesday, June 3. I was so excited. As I was setting it up, I realized it had a french keyboard. I’m not sure I’m eloquent enough to describe how I felt at that moment. Horror, anger, frustration. All those words work. It took me hours to get a hold of the sales department in Europe to deal with this mistake. The upshot is that I had to re-order the computer, wait for UPS to deliver a label to me to put on the return box. However, they were not allowed to pick up the box itself. After finding two different UPS pick up points closed until who knows when, I was successful this morning at handing it in to a UPS point at an Office Depot. Now I have to wait until the end of the month for my new (again) laptop to arrive. I must have been praying for patience in my life. How else can one explain two months on an iPad.

One day at a time, we move out into this new world of ours, wearing masks, social distancing and fighting with every ounce of our beings for a better and fairer world.

A bientôt

Sara

Saving Sara

“Read Saving Sara to see how bad it can get before it gets great–and find out just how she did it, so you can do it too. What a great read.” –Judy Collins, New York Times best-selling author of Cravings and Grammy-nominated singer

Yes, I have written a book. Yes, that Judy Collins, the one who sang Both Sides Now and who we listened to for hours. She read it and told me how much she loved it. I have decided to announce the book on this blog, but Saving Sara and Food Addiction/Compulsive Eating will have it’s own blog starting mid-February.

From the time I was a young teenager, I always wanted to write a book. For all the wrong reasons. My father gave me a diary after we saw The Diary of Anne Frank together, and I was obviously deeply moved by her story. I was ten years old. I even read the book but, though I was inspired to write, I didn’t learn anything about writing and observing and sorting through my thoughts. I used my diary, that had a key and a lock, to complain about my parents and the world in general. Then there were long gaps of three or four months before I took up the cry of the teenage victim once again. It didn’t make for very interesting reading when I found that diary at forty years of age. However, I was impacted by the pain that my young self lived with. Sometimes, I thought I’d made it all up.

I had romantic notions of writing. I thought of starving artists living in garrets in Paris, writing by candlelight and thought how romantic. That would be one way to lose weight. As the years came and went, I set my goal of writing a great novel ten or fifteen years ahead of whatever era I was in. The truth was that I had nothing to say. I was still complaining which no matter how you twist and turn it is boring.

Then I moved to Paris in 2014. I joined a couple of organisations that taught french classes and, it turned out, they also had writing classes. With a push from a friend, I signed up for a writing class in the Fall of 2015. The only class I could find (at the late date I finally made up my mind to do it) was a class on Memoir writing. The teacher thought I was a good writer, that I had a ‘voice’. So I signed up for more writing classes. If you live in Paris and have a creative bone in your body, you take writing or art classes. There is an abundance of them. It is Paris after all. In the summer of 2016, I took a week-long writing workshop given by WICE, the same organization I had taken my first course with. I found I had something to say especially if I was prompted. The thing I had most to say about was my eating disorder that I have lived with all my life. At the workshop, I met an agent who read ten pages of my writing. She asked me if I thought I could write a book. Of course I said Yes! She said, ‘write it and then send it to me.’

It turns out that one needs more than a story-telling voice in order to be a good writer. I had to learn the Craft of Writing. I started this blog in order to practice writing. I hired a coach and learned how to set a scene, how many scenes in a chapter, how to write good dialogue, how long should an average book be. All things I’d never thought about, or was even aware of, although I read voraciously. Almost four years later, I have a finished product. The launch date is May 12, 2020. Amazon put it up on the website for pre-order last August. I have no idea why they do that but they do. Now people are calling me a writer, an author.

I have to say I’m amazed. I actually did it. Not in my forties or fifties but starting in my sixties and the book will be published in my early seventies. It’s possible to find inspiring cliches to give a person confidence and now I’m my own example of why you don’t give up and it’s never too late, you’re never too old. My parents used to say that I never finished anything. If only they could see me now. It was hard work. I almost gave up three times. My editor had great faith in me. She kept telling me I am a good writer and this was a story that needed to be told. Thank goodness for cheerleaders.

I will say more about the book itself in the next blog

For more information on WICE: https://wice-paris.org

I am a champion of independent bookstores. Of course, one can always order off Amazon but go to this website to see where the independent bookstore closest to you is: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781631528460

A bientôt,

Sara