Tag: Writing

To the women who write with skin unzipped

How could I, someone who loves to read, loves poetry, reach the age of seventy-seven and know so little about the life of Sylvia Plath? I knew “The Story”. That she struggled with suicide, moved to the UK and married Ted Hughes. She suceeded in killing herself when she was thirty. The underlying, always hinted at, current was that she was crazy and brilliant. 

When I picked up the Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath by Heather Clark, I’m fairly certain I hadn’t read a single one of her poems. Would I have picked it up (I listened to the audio) if I’d known it was just over 1100 pages? I’ll never know. A friend, a poet, had mentioned her love and admiration for Plath’s poetry in mid-June. I was about to leave on my self-imposed Writing Residency in Saint Jean de Luz (southwest France) and looking for something to accompany me on my train ride, I found Red Comet on Libby and started listening. In reviews that I read while I was listening to the book, it was unanimous that Ms. Clark was presenting the most objective, thorough, story of Plath’s life. Not the dramatic circumstances of her death. In the years since her death, “she has become a protean figure, an emblem of different things to different people, depending upon their viewpoint — a visionary, a victim, a martyr, a feminist icon, a schizophrenic, a virago, a prisoner of gender — or, perhaps, a genius, as both Plath and Hughes maintained during her lifetime.” —Daphne Merkin, New York Times.

Her life, her love of her father, the relationship with her mother who possibly projected all her desires and ambitions onto Plath, her teen years, her internship at Seventeen, and college years at Smith were a revelation to me. 

I loved every minute of listening to this audiobook. I found reasons to take long walks just so I could listen to more. The Sylvia Plath of this book was a determined, focused student then young woman who excelled at almost everything she did. She suffered depressive episodes as I did, as so many teens do, yet she remained true to her north star. I was stunned at her singlemindedness of purpose, write and get published. I paused at one point and listened to The Bell Jar.  If you ask me why I had never read that book, I couldn’t tell you. But I had avoided it. I found the writing to be lovely, simple, easy to enter into the story and root for the protagonist, Esther. I wanted to know how much was based on her real life. Red Comet told me.

Sitting at my computer in 2025, having lived through the Feminist revolution, the #metoo uprising, all the years where, because of leaders like Gloria Steinham and Betty Friedan, women have come a long way since the 1950s when Plath was writing and advocating for herself, it’s stunning to me how she was able to stand up for herself in the only way she knew how. Her sense of competition was so strong, it drove her forward, but also may have led to her death. She had few female inspirations to look up to. 

I hadn’t planned to make it a summer of reading feminist powerhouses. For various reasons: wanting to read more essays written by women in order to emulate them; meeting Melissa Febos at the American Library in Paris and getting some positive and encouraging feedback from her, I also read Leslie Jamison’s The Recovering: Intoxication and Its Aftermath (I read Splintering last summer) and Febos’ Girlhood and Abandon Me.  Like Plath, both these women take huge risks in their writing, exposing their vulnerabilities, writing from a deeply personal place. Jamison writes about tremendous pain. Febos writes about sex and loving women and her awful childhood of being teased and ridiculed because of her large breasts. Girlhood“dissembles many of the myths women are told throughout their lives: that we ourselves are not masters of our own domains, that we exist for the pleasure of others, and so our own pleasure is secondary and negligible.”—Melissa Hart, OprahDaily.com. Jamison writes about her alcoholism, her lousy choice of lovers and in Splintering, the demise of her marriage.

All three women became professors. Plath at her alma mater, Smith College; Febos currently works as a Full Professor at the University of Iowa, where she teaches in the Nonfiction Writing Program; and Jamison at the Columbia University MFA program, where she directs the nonfiction concentration. In other words, all three women, writing as they do, leave themselves very exposed, unzipped in the world. 

As a writer myself, I love knowing these women in depth. Febos and Jamison are alive, young, and headed towards higher accolades than they have already earned. I admire their style of writing. I am in awe of their willingess to expose such vulnerabilities. Jamison is in a twelve step program which encourages self-examination and, therefore, deep shovelling below the surface to face and admit why we do what we do and the consequences. Febos’s work asks us to question every single ‘myth’ we were raised with, every story we were told about who we are and should be, who holds the power in our world and do we, inadvertently, support that world while secretly wanting to have our own personal power. 

In the August 4th issue of the New Yorker, Jamison writes about the Pain of Perfectionism. I was struck by so much information, the kind where you smack yourself on the forehead and say “yes, that’s exactly it!”, that I was scrambling to locate on old therapist of mine from California to talk about my personal revelations. 

“To Flett and Hewitt (two psychologists she interviewed at length for the New Yorker article), the idea of perfectionism as a form of admirable striving is a dangerous misconception, one they have devoted three books and hundreds of peer-reviewed papers to overturning. “I can’t stand it when people talk about perfectionism as something positive,” Flett told me, as we sat at his kitchen table in Mississauga, a Toronto suburb where he has spent most of his life. “They don’t realize the deep human toll.” Hewitt, a clinical psychologist, has seen with his therapy patients how perfectionism can be “personally terrorizing for people, a debilitating state.” It’s driven not by aspiration but by fear, and by the conviction that perfection is the only “way of being secure and safe in the world.”—Leslie Jamison, The New Yorker August 4, 2025

Read the article.

This summer was an interesting digression for me, someone who loves to escape into mysteries and thrillers. I was revising three chapters of my forthcoming book to submit to a Writing Retreat. I was deep in an attempt to express myself without self-pity, with honesty, with self-reflection, and a desire to show my growth from one period of my life to another. I found inspiration from all three (four if you count Heather Clark, a remarkable writer and researcher) women. They guided me in going deeper, get to the real truth, the truth under what I thought was the truth, the truth that makes me squirm.

To all four of you, I say Thank You.

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Please remember to go to sarasomers.substack.com and subscribe to Out My Window. I will be shutting down this WordPress blog by the end of the year.

A bientôt,

Sara

Happy Birthday, Sara

Last week, I celebrated a birthday—one that the number suggests officially makes me an old woman—seventy-eight years. What I feel on the inside doesn’t reflect what I’ve thought in the past the age of seventy-eight years means. ‘What does 78 look like?,’ I asked myself Thursday morning, August 28. ‘Look in the mirror,’ an inner voice responded. Maybe. But I’m always hoping that the response I’ll get when someone askes me how old I am, will be ‘OMG! you look so much younger.’ My response to that has always been “Well, I got my mother’s good genes. She also never looked her age as she got older.”

But, according to Eric Topol of the Washington Post (May 21, 2025) who spent six years sequencing the genomes of 1400 people 80 years of age and older, they shared very few, if any, genetic similarities.

The article goes on to share what ‘Super Agers’ do to maintain good health. That is not what spoke to me.

I have credited my good health and the fact that I don’t look my age to my mother. That through some amazing luck of the draw and, despite drug and alcohol abuse in the first half of my life; extremely poor eating habits which I have labeled food addiction andpoor self-esteem, that I might be responsible for where I am today. I am the one who, through those years, kept trying to exercise, eat right, and continue taking courses/learn new things. I didn’t know I had addiction issues. I thought I was weak. I look back and am amazed that I continued to fight a losing battle with all the suggestions Topol puts forward that lead to ‘Super Aging.’

When my perseverance landed me on the doorstep of 12 Step programs for alcohol and food, I fought the solutions with the same uninformed gusto that I’d fought the problems. Till I had no strength to fight anymore. I waved the proverbial white flag. In putting down, letting go, perhaps acceptance is the better word, of my addictive life style, I gave myself a better than fighting chance to stick to all the suggestions for a healthy lifestyle. 

It even turns out that my aptitude towards doing nothing, taking naps, reading on the couch, taking days where I don’t get out of my PJs and putter in my apartment, is now considered healthy.

It’s true that I’ve had surgeries: right hip replacement (2017); cataract surgeries (2024); carpal tunnel surgeries on both wrists (2024, 2025); and probably another hip replacement this coming winter. As I tell my friends, I’m like the Velveteen Rabbit—coming apart at the seams and need to be sewn back up—but my internal organs are in fine shape.

It has taken me eight years to celebrate my 70s. I couldn’t do it when I was 70. I was too undone by the number. I celebrated turning 70 on my 71st birthday. I had a picnic on my 74th or 75th. I got distracted by who didn’t come than on the fact I had lived longer than 1/4 of my High School graduating class.

Photo: Unsplash.com

This year, I felt the need to celebrate. Yes, my age, but also that I have successfully integrated and become a valued member of the exPat community here in Paris where I moved twelve years ago at the age of sixty-six; that I have the apartment of my dreams; that I am a published author; that I’m healthy and doing my best to learn how to age wisely.

I invited a number of women who are special to me to come to a sit down dinner. One of those friends said, “if you really want to enjoy your party, have it catered. Let someone else do the work.” Me? Pay someone else to make my life easier when I could do it myself? I made the wise decision to not listen to my inner voices that have too often proved untrustworthy and followed her advice. I chose the menu (salmon and roasted vegetables). I decorated my table with red and white checked napkins and tablecloth. I picked the time to eat: 7:30pm. Then I sat back and bathed in the connections, the laughter, the camaraderie and, of course, some Sara roasting. One friend brought little bottles of bubble solution and before the fruit and cheese dessert, we all stood on my small terrace and blew bubbles into the darkening Paris sky.

Then, when we were all seated again, out came a piece of melon with a porcelain birthday cake and lit candle. I blew out my candle and felt well fêted.

Ever on the academic calendar, I’m now welcoming in a new year. Here in Paris, it’s La Rentrée when everyone returns from wherever they’ve been during the summer. Children started school this week, the Senior Sports program starts up on the 15th. I’m signed up for Pilates and Tai Chi. My six month sabbatical from this Substack is over.

Wecome to a new year of Out My Window. Nine years ago, I started this as a blog, as a letter to all my distant friends. I migrated over to Substack three and a half years ago. I will be terminating my Word Press connection by the end of 2025.

If you are reading this on WordPress, I encourage you to go to Substack and subscribe to Out My Window. sarasomers.substack.com. It’s free and it’s easy. I hope to bring all of you over by the end of the year. If you no longer want to received Out My Window, unsubscribe now. And thank you for reading my thoughts all these many years.

Thank you everyone for joining me and reading my words for nine years or, perhaps, one month. Please take the time to “like” below so that I know I’m reaching you and comment with anything that my writing has inspired. I read everything and so appreciate the time you give to me.

Thanks for reading Out My Window! Please go to sarasomers.substack to subscribe for free and receive new posts and support my work.

A bientôt,

Sara

Joy and Serendipity

I am interrupting my six month WordPress sabbatical to write about 1-being back in heavenly Saint Jean de Luz and 2—an amazing experience (amazing to me) I had last Saturday.

Sun setting over white caps after a very windy afternoon in Saint Jean de Luz

After being introduced to Saint Jean de Luz a number of summers ago, I have come down for two to four weeks each summer. This summer, I planned a self-imposed writing residency for myself to prepare submissions for a September writing retreat. Two or three months ago, my friend Jane from the Bay Area called to let me know she was hiking in the west of Ireland and would I like to meet up in Dublin at the end of her trip. Yes, I would love to but I had this trip to SJdeL planned, bought train tickets, paid for my rental. What did she think of coming to SJdeL? She had been here on my recommendation with her husband last summer and loved it. Needing a couple of days to figure it out, she made it happen. RyanAir from Dublin to Biarritz, taxi to SJdeL, stay 4 nights and then make the reverse trip in order to fly back to SFO. BUT….she needed to come on the 22nd and I had tickets for the 24th. I changed my train reservation and we have just spent four wonderful, heavenly days here in SJdeL. 

Looking at La Grande Plage from the Quai leading up to Saint Barbe

For me, it turned out to be a vacation before the writing started. I’ve been battling one thing after another health wise, none serious but all very annoying: vertigo, another carpal tunnel surgery that wanted to take its sweet time healing, etc. I slept in every morning, ate a leisurely breakfast, and then we walked the boardwalk to the marina, bought food at the marché, and shopped! I would leave Jane at the beach on our way back, and she swam while I came back to do I don’t know what. Jane stayed at a wonderful hotel at the top of the cliffs called La Réserve. A terrace extended off her bedroom and offered a view of the Atlantic Ocean that mesmerised. We’d make our dinner each evening and talk our way late into the night. Then walk to Saint Barbe and down the hill headed to my apartment. She’d leave me at the turn-off away from the beach. 

Sunset June 25, 2025

Jane and I have known each other for fifty years. We’ve gotten to be better friends as we’ve grown older and now, no matter the last time we were together, we fall into talking as if we’d been together a week ago. It’s very precious – the friendship with her and also with her husband. They have taught me a lot about thoughtfulness, open heartedness, curiosity about others just by living their lives, being examples of a life well lived.

Sharing SJdeL, one of my favorite places in the world, with Jane over these past four days has been so delightful—in the full sense of the word: full of delights. One evening as she walked back to La Réserve, she witnessed a lightning storm and took a video:

I had heard the thunder and went out on my little balcony to watch the sky explode with light. I don’t remember ever seeing such a sight. The next day after a lovely sunny morning, the wind picked up. Wind surfers gathered on the beach at the edge of the water raring to go. I was headed up to La Réserve and took this video of the sails flying by. If you turn the sound on, you can hear how loud the wind was roaring.

I’m now putting off feeling the sadness of her departure by writing about the last four days. 

*** ***

Last Saturday, my last day in Paris before leaving on this trip, I attended a poetry literature gathering. Our prof, Heather, had put together a number of poems for us to read and talk about. The first was Robert Frost The Road Less Traveled. Chatterbox that I am, I announced that Robert Frost had been the commencement speaker at my school, Baldwin School for Girls, when I was in 7th grade. The woman seated to my left, jumped and asked “What school did you say?” 

“Baldwin School for Girls” I responded. 

“I graduated 1965,” she said. 

I told her that if I had stayed I also would have graduated 1965. “Did you know KV?” I asked. 

“Yes, she is a good friend of mine.”

By this time, it felt a bit Twilight Zone. In an apartment in the 15th arrondissement in Paris, France, what are the chances of sitting next to someone I probably knew but not well sixty-six years ago. When the salon had ended, we ran more names by each other. She knew them all. By the time I went to bed, that night, she had written emails to a number of them cc’ing me telling them what happened.

I had been writing a story that included skating in the afternoon when I attended Baldwin. I had been thinking of KV as she had looked then. A dreamy memory, more black and white than color. Monday morning, she wrote saying that she well remembered me. And my sister. And our thick hair—mine brunette, P’s red. 

There is something wonderful about accidents like these happening. I have unpleasant memories of being twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, actually most of my teens were not great. Here come witnesses to tell me if my memory is distorted or maybe just maybe, those times were not quite what I thought them to be. KV said she “always had fun when we got together.” I don’t think of myself as a fun person back then. It’s possible I still have some things to learn.

*** ***

My intention was to not write here until the end of the Writing Retreat in September. Time just didn’t allow for everything I wanted to do. Unless something jumps up and hits me in the face, I will stick to that resolution.

Thank you for reading and being there. Your support of my writing means the world to me.

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A bientôt,

Sara

I am a daffodil

Reader: (this is my Jane Eyre moment)

Over the past three weeks, I have had so much to write about but every morning, I read the headlines out of the US and, much like many others on Substack, it takes me most of the day to shake off the feeling of dread. Unless I’m writing fiction, writing brings me closer to whatever is going on inside my head and heart. I end up staring out the window in front of my desk, gazing at the Parisian rooftops, both grateful I live in France yet very aware that what happens in the US will affect us all.

I have also learned that I have to have a second carpal tunnel surgery on March 31. This time on my right wrist. This will dampen my writing 95% and I still am rubbish at dictating to my computer.

I have a deadline. I have to submit three chapters of my next book by sometime in June which means a lot of work. I have been viscious in axing many of the things I do on a volunteer basis and hoping that what is on my calendar now is the most neccessary appointments with myself and the things that keep my heart and soul healthy and growing. Not easy in this strange time of being alive.

Between now and September, I will only be writing sporadically. I’m suspending the paid subscriptions and everything will be free. Meanwhile, here are the things I’ve been thinking about, experiencing, and responding to:

THE BRUTALIST: I saw this movie last week. I rarely go to a cinema these days for no reason that I can explain. My friend, Elsie, said “It’s vacation here in France and I’d love to go a movie. Which one?” I didn’t even know what the word Brutalist referred to and fearing that it would be violent yet knowing it was nominated for every award possible, I thought this was my chance to see it and not go alone!!! Another friend had seen it the night before, loved it, and said the almost four hours flew by. I suggested going to it. We went to a 4pm showing. 

I thought the movie was stunning. Visually, it was a treat and not to be seen on a small screen. Adrien Brody plays what he does best—a long suffering Jew. His face was made for that role. My friend was right. The time flew by. The intermission is a welcome respite for those of us who need to stand up or go to the Toilettes during a movie. And the themes of the movie, whether you like it or not, make you think. Fascism vs Capitalism. Little educated guy vs power-hungry uneducated rich guy. Brutalism itself: which is the name of the school of architecture that came out of the Bauhaus movement in Germany. Immigration in North America: how immigrants get used and thrown away. Psychological violence vs physical violence.

I left the cinema wanting to read everything I could about the movie, about the writer and director. There was a similarity to reading a one thousand page book that has a profundity on every page. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next day, I had lunch with three friends and recommended they see it. All three looked at me in surprise. “Everyone I know who saw it, hated it,” they said. How could that be possible? More to think about. I came to my own conclusion that we are all overloaded and overwhelmed. During WWII, musicals became the rage as did Film Noir. Escapist movies that took the viewer away from the realities of their lives.  The Brutalist pushed issues in the viewer’s face. Many of us don’t want our movies to do that right now. When I’m at home, I want to watch All Creatures Great and Small, Father Brown, reruns of Miss Marple, old classic movies. Every part of me feels so sensitive that my tolerance for violence and too much suspense is nil. Yet, I loved The Brutalist. Go figure.

CLOCKS: REMINDER to all readers around the world: On March 9th, somewhere in the dead of night or early morning, the US will move clocks forward one hour. Here in Europe, we don’t have the luxury of late days until March 30. That is three weeks of mayhem if you don’t plan ahead. What is usually six hours difference between New York and Paris becomes five hours. If I have a scheduled phone call every Monday morning at 9am ET and the call originates in Michigan, I need to call at 2pm in Paris instead of 3pm. If a friend in California calls me each week on a Tuesday at 5pm in Paris, she would call me at 9am PT instead of 8am. 

The best thing to do is use your smart phone and look up the world clock and the times. I have missed many meetings because I couldn’t, on the spur of the moment, think correctly if I was to call one hour before or one hour after the normally scheduled time.

daffodils – Parc de Bagatelle 2022

PARC DE BAGATELLE: As long time readers know, I love to write about my favorite park at least once a year. The Parc de Bagatelle is situated in the upper north west corner of Bois de Boulogne. It is now a 50 minute walk for me instead of the 35 minute walk when I lived two stops higher on the metro #9. I strolled there two weeks ago to investigate the daffodils fields. These fields flower like a Wordsworth poem every February and March. It is a stunning sight if you hit it at the right time. Two weeks ago was not the right time. Maybe it is the cold of this winter, the amount of rain, the lack of sun—although none of those things is particularly unParisian—there wasn’t a bloom to be seen. Scraggly stems about three to five inches high were pushing their way up from the ground. The tulips, which usually follow daffodil season in mid March to mid April and love cold ground, the colder the better, were sprouting right on time. You can imagine the disappointment when rounding a corner and expecting to see YELLOW. Yellow everywhere. This time, just green shoots.

Today, I’m returning and taking some friends with me. The sun has been out a lot in the past two weeks and I’m crossing my fingers, hoping, hoping, hoping, to show them the glory of daffodil season at the Parc de Bagatelle. Truthfully, nothing can dampen the joy I feel when I’m there. Seeing the cats who gather very close to the majority of daffodil fields, the many peacocks who strut the grounds, barking and honking and showing off their gorgeous plumage, the lovely mallards who stroll around near the lakes they frequent, and the anticipation of tulip season, iris season, peony season, and the formal rose garden that has a yearly competition for the best rose in Paris for the year. If the daffodils are at a minimum, I will have to draw on every oral skill I have to paint a portrait of this parc that the City of Paris maintains so beautifully.

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Until the next time,

A bientôt,

Sara

Big Magic

Do you believe in magic……???

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, an inspirational book by Elizabeth Gilbert, was published in 2015 and instantly became a bestseller. This was nine years after her breakout bestseller Eat, Pray, Love. After hearing writing group friends talk about it in my presence, I broke down and bought a copy in 2021. I think I read two chapters. Since I have just finished reading the entire thing today (July 2024), I cannot tell you why I wasn’t interested back in the pandemic years when being able to read for long periods of time wasn’t such a luxury. Maybe I considered it airy-fairy and that approach wasn’t going to improve my writing. Whatever the reason, I put it in the Living Room closet next to some books on the Writing of Memoir, and there it has sat ever since. In fact, it is still sitting there. I listened to Elizabeth Gilbert read the audiobook while I walked the trails and beaches of Saint Jean de Luz in the Pays Basque region of southwest France.

The book can be summed up as EG taking every possible fear and rationale we writers have to not write and shows us why it is poppycock. She claims she was the most fearful of children, scared of everything, scared of waves, scared of snow. She lists at least two pages of fears to not write. “I’m too old”, “I’m not old enough”. I found myself laughing as I remembered almost each and every fear she mentioned.

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She says something very interesting. Something that goes against one of the blurbs of her book: which said something to the effect ‘how to learn to have a creative life.’ My words. Gilbert says we don’t learn anything. We already are creative. We either use our creativity in living or we don’t. But it’s always there. 

I enjoyed listening to the book. I enjoyed it because I’m on the other side of a lot of the fears she’s talking about. So I was nodding my head as she talked, agreeing with her on many points. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t been writing for eight years, hadn’t had a book published, hadn’t talked about some of my fears with my coach and editor, I would have had a hard time groking what she was saying. It was a bit like the huge Nike poster I had scotch taped to the back of my toilet door years ago. JUST DO IT!

Gilbert seems to think if she could do it, anyone can. So she talks about courage, persistence, trust, enchantment and how she met each one head on. What she doesn’t say is that, in fact, she is an exceptional person. She has a huge personality, she’s probably impulsive and when she gets into something, she jumps in 110%. She takes risks—introducing herself to Ann Patchett at a conference by telling her how much she loved her. I recognise this. In my 70s, I have much the same personality. But it took sixty-five years to be born. I think I might have cried reading this book in my 30s. Of course, I have no way of knowing. Looking at that Nike poster every day actually drove home the sentiment – forget all your excuses, Sara, just do it! And sometimes I did!

I think my take away from the book and one I want to pass on is: love what you do. If you love to write, write. Don’t think about the end result. Will it get published? Do I need an agent? etc, etc, etc. Just write because you love it. I need to say that I’m in a very lucky and enviable situation. I am retired from my first profession, have savings, and am in a position that many writers are not. I don’t have to depend on my writing for income, to make ends meet. I get to write because I love to write. I am discovering that more and more. I find on-line challenges and things like Jamie Attenberg’s #1000 Words of Summer that encourage me to write every day and account to someone, even in the virtual world. Writing every day makes it easier to write every day. Yes, that’s English and it’s true. And getting prompts from people like mary g.’s substack What Now? has led to interesting stories—ones I wouldn’t have thought up just sitting on my butt at the dining room table hoping for inspiration.

I have a hard time getting through any book on writing. Some craft books are written by smart and wiley people. They give you a teaching then two or three short stories that use the very thing the writer hopes you will learn. For instance: Tell It Slant (Miller and Paola, 3rd edition 2019). I was finished the book before I had time to give up on it. There were fascinating stories, most I hadn’t read. I may have learned something also. My writing teacher, Jennifer Lauck, refers to it often.

So if you, like me, like to listen to audio books while you walk, and you want some inspiration to take a next step or do a high five because you’ve already figured out something Elizabeth Gilbert writes about, then you will probably enjoy this book. EG’s voice is extremely pleasant to listen to. Since she wrote the book, she can emphasize words and points she wants emphasized. 

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A bientôt,

Sara

Writing in Paris – Part 2

The Paris Writers Workshop

In January, I wrote about the first workshop I ever participated in and why it was so valuable to me. And because of the Workshop, I went on to write and publish a book, and call myself an author.  Now that the Paris Writers Workshop is open for registration and only three months away, I wanted to describe specifics. As dry as this writing might be, every word is written with gratitude for the opportunity granted to me.  As my mother used to say to me constantly: “There is no such thing as luck. It’s grabbing at an opportunity when it presents itself.”

Why would Paris residents want to register for PWW? For one, it is so accessible–a metro ride away. It’s affordable—as in the past, there is an early bird registration which I took advantage of each year that I registered. And as WICE is a nonprofit, the price is very reasonable.

PWW will be held at the beautiful Reid Hall in the Columbia Global Centers in the literary Montparnasse neighborhood. There is a large beautiful garden area with plenty of seating. One can write at one of the many tables or bring a bag lunch to enjoy with your cohorts surrounded by trees and summer flowers. Le Select, La Coupole, Le Dome, and Le Closerie de Lilas (one of Hemingway’s hangouts) are in walking distance.

Reid Hall

And non-Paris residents? Who would turn down a chance to visit Paris in the early summer before the craziness of the Olympics starts? We will happily make suggestions for reasonable accommodations (but I’m told you need to make those reservations now as Paris is raising prices in anticipation of the Summer Olympics), and you will have a new literary home away from home.

Now to the really good part:

We have an amazing lineup of teachers for six tracks.

The Novel master class will be taught by Samantha Chang. I know her as Sam.

Sam is the Director of the famous Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She is the author of The Family Chao (she spoke at the American Library Summer 2022), Inheritance and other titles.

The Memoir/ Creative Nonfiction class will be taught by Jennifer Lauck.

Jennifer is the Founder of the Blackbird Studio for Writers. She is the author of Blackbird,a Memoir of her childhood, and 3 more memoirs that followed. Oprah said that everyone should read Blackbird. She also writes a wonderful Substack: Flight School with Jennifer Lauck

Poetry will be taught by Heather Hartley.

Heather, a resident of Paris, teaches Creative Writing at the University of Kent (UK) Paris School of Arts and Culture.  She is the author of the poetry collections Adult Swim and Knock Knock.

This year, we are offering three new tracks:

Speculative Fiction will be taught by Kevin Brockmeier.

Kevin is the author of The Brief History of the Dead, The Truth about Celia and other titles. He frequently teaches at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Screenwriting will be taught by Diane Lake.

Diane has written many screenplays for major studios including the Academy Award winning Frida. She is the author of The Screenwriter’s Path: From Idea to Script to Sale.

Travel Writing will be taught by Don George.

Don is Editor-at-Large for National Geographic Travel. He is the author of How to Be a Travel Writer: the best selling travel writing guide in the world.

Go to our website, https://wice-paris.org/paris-writers-workshop for more details about our amazing faculty. Each track has its own registration page. Click on the photo of the teacher to get to that registration.

Once you register, you will receive an acceptance e-mail unless the course is full. Each Masterclass will have a maximum of twelve students.  You will be given some choices if that is the case.

Your masterclass package includes:

·       Daily small group masterclasses in your selected genre

·       Individual meetings with your faculty instructor

·       Inspirational and practical guidance for your work in progress

·       Panel discussions focused on tools of writing and paths to publishing

·       Readings by your fellow writers and faculty

·       Social gatherings with an amazing community of writers from all over the world

Students and faculty will meet together Sunday, June 2 from 2 PM to 4 PM at Reid Hall.

The masterclasses will meet each weekday from 2 to 5 PM Monday through Friday. There will be literary events each evening.

Monday morning there will be a LITERARY walking tour of the Montparnasse area for anyone who is interested. The whole week will be topped off on Friday evening June 7 with readings by the faculty and students.

And on Wednesday and Thursday, we will have two well-known British agents here. You can pre-send a writing sample to one or both and pitch your project face-to-face.

Registration is now open. The earlybird registration fee is €975.

After March 15, the fee for the workshop will be €1100.

This is a wonderful opportunity to write, to meet other writers and authors, to organize writing groups at the end of the week, and to pick the brains of published authors.

If you know anyone who is a writer who wants to write as I did or is a secret writer please pass on this information.

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Participants of the Short Story track at a PWW.

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A bientôt,

Sara

My story: The Perfect Game

“We are excited to invite you to our annual AWP reading + celebration on Friday, Feb.9 at 7PM at Sinkers Lounge, in Kansas City.     (Sinkers is just 2.5 blocks from the KC Convention Center.)”

I received this e-mail two days ago. Many of you will remember how excited I was to have a story I wrote be accepted to the Under Review. The on-line digital version of the journal is out (click here). Issue 9. And many of us writers of Issues 8 and 9 have been invited to read our stories at AWP 24 (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) next month in Kansas City.

I sent the invite to my writing group to see if they would come support me and the responses ranged from “Wait, what, the Journal is out and you didn’t tell us?” “Heck yeah!” “How come you aren’t telling everyone they can see your story in print?” That brought me up short. I hadn’t even thought of telling people. Why not? I’d sent the link to a number of people I was sure hadn’t seen it and that was it. We writers have to be brazen about publicising ourselves as no one else will do it. Even for a book, the cost of having publicity done by a company is prohibitive to most people. I’m told that even traditional publishers don’t do publicity unless you are Stephen King or John Grisham. No matter how shy we are or how difficult it feels to tout one’s own horn, no one else is going to do it.

So to those of you who gave me high fives when my story was accepted and all the rest of you who may have missed that blog, now you can see it digitally in print here

If you are going to AWP 24 this year, please come to Sinkers Lounge on Friday evening, Feb 9th. If the weather keeps going in the direction it’s going, which is to say it’s getting warmer, it could well be in the low or high 40s by the time we all get there. So no excuse.

Last year, three people, that includes me, in my writing group went together to AWP 23. We’d only met on Zoom for eight months or so. It was like we’d known each other forever, we got along so well. This year five of us in the group are going. I rented a five-bedroom house that looks as quirky as we feel when we all get together. We may even get a dog staying with us this time around.

I’ll be taking flyers to AWP to advertise the Paris Writers Workshop in Paris, June 2-7, 2024. Which, btw, I have more information about. I wrote my story of Writing in Paris three weeks ago and how honored I am to be part of this year’s planning committee. At the time I published, I didn’t know some exact details. Here they are. This is the landing page telling you exact dates and about the faculty. The entire website will be up and ready for registrations on January 31.

Registration: Early Bird—975€ till March 15, 2024       

    Full price —1,100€ March 16 onwards 

Agent consultations: For an additional fee, you can register for one, or two, agent consultations. More information to come.

Cancellation Policy:

 Full refund through 15 April 2024 minus 100€ admin fee

Half refund through 30 April 2024 minus 100€ admin fee

I hope to see lots of blog writers and readers at the Paris Writers Workshop. I’ve gone twice now. It is excellent and so reasonably priced. Paris will be dressed up in preparation for the summer Olympics. It will be a good time to see all the decorations without having to deal with the crowds.

A bientôt,

Sara

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Snow and…..

Ann Arbor

Friday night, January 12, just as the sun was beginning to descend behind the trees, big fat snowflakes began to fall in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The kind that stick to the ground. Within an hour, I walked to the front door of my sister’s home and peeked out. Then I stepped out onto the porch. In front of me was a white winter wonderland. The snowfall was at least 6 inches and still going. The snow was light, light enough that it comfortably sat on tree limbs without forcing the branch to bow to the ground. Neighbors hadn’t taken down their Christmas lights. Across the street was a tree decorated in only blue lights. Without snow, in the dark, it looked dramatic. With the snow, it looked like a thousand dollar window in Macy’s or Magnins. Windows that were so magical adults as well as children were enchanted.

My sister’s next-door neighbor had started to take his outdoor lights down but couldn’t finish because of the snow and cold. The tree was sprinkled with red, yellow, green, and white tiny lights. They lighted up the lower branches of his snow filled tree. Cars parked on the side of the road had almost disappeared. No one was out. The snowfall was pristine. Even knowing that the morning would probably bring ice, cars that wouldn’t start, dirty brown tracks on the streets as people attempted to go to work or do errands, the sight of the snow Friday evening filled me with wonder. It was moments of pure joy.

I cannot remember last seeing snow like that. Living in California, we might get a sprinkle on Mt. Diablo that was gone by mid-day. On ski trips, it was rare to be lucky enough to get fresh snow for the next morning. In the ten years I’ve lived in Paris, I’ve seen snow fall five or six times. Usually flurries. Everyone gets excited but the snow doesn’t stick. The one time it did stick, the snow removers were out in record time making sure all the parked cars on every street could move.

When I was young, in college, Paris often got a foot or more of snow. Foot traffic tapped down paths on the sidewalks so people could stroll. Les marchands de marrons(roasted chestnut sellers) brought their stoves, huge iron apparatuses, and several bushels of chestnuts. They’d set themselves up at the foot of a bridge, then barbecue the chestnuts till they became soft. I’d buy a newspaper cone full of the piping hot chestnuts for two francs. Buying and eating those chestnuts became the definition of winter in Paris for me. I think I’ve seen three chestnut sellers in the last five years.

It seems I’ve only been to Ann Arbor in the winter. People say I have to come in the summer when trees are in bloom and flowers of every color are flowing off porches. The weather is warm often verging on very hot. But for my money, the experience of witnessing an untouched field of snow that goes as far as the eye can see is a wonder to behold. Of course, I don’t have to live there and suffer all the problems that are sure to happen for the next week or two.

Ann Arbor is a great town. Most important to me, if I lived there, is the fact that there isn’t a rush hour. My sister asked me to go to Plum Market for a few things for our dinner. Since it was 5:15pm, I assumed I’d have to take side roads. “No, no,” she said. I drove down Miller, turned left on to Maple, a major thoroughfare, and soon I was at Plum Market. Same amount of time as if I’d driven at 1pm. Same amount of cars. Heaven!!

It’s a walking town. The Huron River runs very close to the town and provides walkers with many lovely tow paths. The University of Michigan is right smack dab in the middle of town. I’d even go so far as to venture that the town of Ann Arbor grew up around the University. Wonderful stores line State St, Huron St and Hill St. After Michigan won the National Football Championship last Monday, the M den was packed with people buying T-shirts declaring Michigan the best at 15-0 ( I just had to get that in. It was very exciting and I love the excitement of Championship games!)

Ann Arbor is a bookstore town. There are a minimum of eight bookstores that sell both used and new books. There is even a map showing where all the bookstores are. One can make a walking tour out of a search for all the bookstores. The love of books and bookstores is very Parisian! My sister took me to Literati which sells new books. The ground floor is floor to ceiling fiction. It looks like an old timey academic library, There are even ladders. Below, on the lower floor, was non-fiction and the first floor (second in US) was the best book floor I’ve seen in a long time. Children’s books, jigsaw puzzles, beautifully crafted dolls, cards and stickers, and a collection of old typewriters on display. All this was managed by Vicky who knows every book in the store and is so personable that I found myself buying books and cards even though I almost always get my books from the Library.

I’m writing this sitting on a plane two hours out of Detroit. Thanks to all the snow that, indeed, became ice, the plane left two hour late. I’m flying west so maybe I’ll still see some daylight when we land. Meanwhile, it’s lovely to revisit Ann Arbor.

A bientôt,

Sara

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Writing in Paris…….Paris Writers Workshop June 2-7, 2024

If you have ever dreamed of writing a memoir, a short story, a novel, and doing it in the City of Light: Paris, you can do it this summer. My writing story follows.

I discovered reading for fun the summer I turned 14. During summer camp in Vermont, we were bussed down to Tanglewood in Western Massachusetts to picnic and listen to the Boston Symphony who summered there (Back then it was known as the Boston Pops).  Wandering off by myself, I found a gift shop. A plethora of paperback books on three racks greeted me as I walked in the door.  I’d never bought a book on my own.  Going into a shop and browsing, having a title leap out at me and paying for it with my own money, this was new and foreign territory for me. I spun one of the book racks and the title A Separate Peace (John Knowles, 1958) jumped out at me. I bought it.

I devoured A Separate Peace. Every afternoon rest period, I read. At night, in my sleeping bag, flashlight on, I read. The book, about two teenage boys at Exeter Academy, spoke to me.  Before I’d finished, I knew I wanted to write. It wasn’t a crystalized thought. I had so many pent-up teenage emotions with no idea how to express them other than screaming at members of my family. I just knew that getting what was in my head out on paper had to have some kind of transformational impact.

From then on, reading became my way of not feeling so alone. I wasn’t great at talking. I had an A+ in complaining. And, like so many teenagers who feel unfocused creative thoughts, I soon started writing awful poetry.

Over the next 20 or so years, I tried to write stories. I’d start out fine but could never find a way to end them. In my thirties, it dawned on me that I had nothing to say. My life experience was limited, and I had little self-awareness to make sense of the experience I did have. As years passed, I began telling myself that I was Going To Write A Book when I was 55 instead of 30.

Fifty-two years after that Tanglewood experience, I moved to Paris.  I was retired. I had more curiosity than I could contain. Writing courses were plentiful, almost on every street corner! After signing up for the requisite immersion French class, I decided NOW was the time to learn the craft of writing. I joined WICE (Where Internationals Connect in English), an organization that teaches language, creative writing, and photography courses among other offerings. It was mid-October and the only writing course that wasn’t full was a memoir class.

I am eternally grateful that the teacher loved my writing. I signed up for another of her classes in the Spring. I learned that WICE hosts a biannual Paris Writers Workshop (PWW). Unlike many workshops that take place year round in France, this one was reasonably priced. I didn’t hesitate.  Those nasty voices that tell us ‘we’re no good’, ‘Who do you think you are?’, and the zinger, ‘You’re too old to do this’, hadn’t yet taken up residence in my brain. I signed up.  I even met with one of the agents at the conference. She wanted to see more of my writing.

Four years later, I published my first book, Saving Sara: A Memoir of Food Addiction (SheWritesPress, 2020).

I became aware that in my adopted country of France, there are thousands of offerings for the writer and the would-be writer: in-person writing courses, video writing courses, workshops in gorgeous chateaux in the French countryside. But the Paris Writers Workshop stayed my first love. It was the place that had given me the confidence to call myself a writer.

This year, I’m excited to be on the planning committee of the new Paris Writers Workshop, which will be held June 2-7, 2024.

PWW began in 1988. It is the oldest continuous writing workshop in Paris. The 2024 workshop promises to be one of the best so far. The Writing Workshop includes six tracks—Fiction, Speculative Fiction, Memoir/Creative Non-Fiction, Travel Writing, Poetry, and Screenwriting — with an amazing faculty lineup. The wonderful Jennifer Lauck whose Substack Flight School with Jennifer Lauck was one of Sarah Mays top 10 writing Substacks last November will be teaching the Memoir/Creative Non-Fiction track. For the first time, we will be partially sponsored by the Columbia Global Centers and will meet in CGC’s beautiful Reid Hall, in the center of the literary Montparnasse neighborhood. 

Reid Hall at the Columbia Global Center in Paris, 6th arrondissement.

The PWW website goes live January 31, 2024. You can go to the landing page now. Click here to see it. There you will find information on each track and a bio of the teacher.

Registration starts on January 31, 2024. There is an Early Bird registration which gives the writer 100 euros off the 1200 euros price. 

And if the unexpected happens, one can get a full refund. Those dates will be up on the website.

You can also write pww@wice-paris.org for specific information. If you are sure of a track before registration opens, you can claim a spot at pww@wice-paris.org.

A bientôt,

Sara

A different version of this blog appears in the Jan/Feb issue of the AAWE News Paris

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We would like to publish your…..

Yesterday I received an email telling me that a story I submitted to a journal was accepted for publication. I wasn’t expecting the email. It’s been five weeks since I submitted it. That is an incredibly quick turn around for a journal.

I sat and looked at it, wanting to jump up and down, but afraid that the email might disappear if I did that. After 90 seconds or so, I threw my arms in the air and yelled “YES!!!” Then I forwarded the message to my writing group. Not good enough. The room was silent. I called Tracy, one of the members of my group. I told her that my insides were dancing around and I needed to hear a human voice. She said she had just started to write to me. She was so happy for me. I could hear excitement in her voice. 

Angela, Tracy, and Sara — members of my Writing Group

Then I emailed everyone I knew who has been supporting my writing work. And the congratulations started rolling in. I did jump up and down then, and danced, and had a big shit-eating grin on my face. I went to a Holiday Stroll in my little village of Montclair. Whenever someone, innocently, asked “How are you?” I responded with, “You really want to know?” No one is going to say no when someone with a huge smile on her face is actually willing to tell you. So I told my great news to perfect strangers.

This is the thing: Writing as a profession is a second career for me. I retired from my first career after 35 years, moved to Paris, and started taking writing classes. I wrote a memoir: Saving Sara A Memoir of Food Addiction. I thought, at the time, that would be the end of it. Writing is a bug. Once it fully resides in you, that’s it, the end, you’re hooked. I started thinking of myself as an author, a writer. I’ve been taking writing classes and working with my writing group on my voice. Was I going to attempt to write fiction? or non-fiction? I’m 76 years old. Maybe if I was younger, I would spend more time on the craft of novel writing, or short stories. My imagination isn’t accustomed to going in that direction. I consistently fall short. I love writing this Substack and articles for anyone who asks. I’m comfortable with my non-fiction voice. I wrote a short story about baseball—which I also love. It was based on a true event. I knew exactly which journal I wanted to submit it to. The Under Review. I had met the editors at AWP 23 (Association of Writers and Writing Programs). I played ping pong on the smallest table I’ve seen with one of the editors. I shot a hole in one into the tiniest basket you can imagine. They gave me a coffee cup as a reward. We laughed, and high fived, and had a grand time.

Playing ping pong at AWP 23

I worked hard on my story. I revised it at least 30 times with the help of my amazing writing group: Tracy, Angela, Bob, and Christie. When I thought I was going to hate it if I saw it one more time, I decided it was finished. I submitted it five days before the deadline for the Winter Issue.

My prize for a basket in one!

Yesterday morning, I was sitting on my couch in my home in Oakland, California, missing Paris (although I’m told it is REALLY cold there). I wasn’t depressed, just blah. Everyone knows blah. No color in one’s world. Who cares what happens for the rest of the day. My little foster kittens were tearing up everything in sight and I didn’t have the energy to stop them. Then the email arrived from The Under Review. 

It was like a shot of adrenaline. Someone who counts, who publishes stories, likes my story. Now I want to write again. Ok, so what if I’m retired but working full-time. And yes, writing is a pretty lonely enterprise. I suppose it’s a bit like winning a slam, you shine under the spotlight. Then you start all over again. Maybe I’m seeded a little bit higher but considering who’s out there writing, I’m guessing I’m seeded about 10,000! And that’s ok. Because I’m seeded. I’ve written one book and I’ve started on my collection of short stories!

Now the California sunshine is calling. Gotta get this adrenaline moving around.

A bientôt,

Sara

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