Janice MacLeod's Blog, page 8

Why do I love Oscar Wilde? First, he was a great writer. Second, he loved saying sensational things. Humble wasn’t his game. Why be humble when you can be great?

1. “I have nothing to declare except my genius.”

2. “I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”

I couldn’t agree more.

3. “I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their intellects.”

…which means Oscar and I would have been friends, acquaintances and enemies.

4. “I can resist everything except temptation.”

…which is especially true when faced with the many cheeses, desserts and breads of Paris.

He is also said to have something on his deathbed like, “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or other of us has to go.” But sadly, Wikiquote corrected this and reports:

“The following clarification was printed in the Guardian’s Corrections and clarifications column, Thursday October 18 2007. Oscar Wilde did not say, on his deathbed, “Either those curtains go or I do.” He is reported to have said something along the lines of “this wallpaper will be the death of me – one of us will have to go”, but not on his deathbed.”

I’m counting that as #5.

6. “Always forgive your enemies – nothing annoys them so much.”

This I have found to be true. There are times I’ve been in a disagreement with someone and I have accepted blame and apologized for everything just to not give them anything to keep arguing about. Nothing shuts them up faster. Then I can get on with my day and life. Sorry (not sorry). 

7. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Ain’t that the truth.

8. “You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.”

9.“ With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?”

10. “You can never be overdressed or overeducated.”

Speaking of, have you taken one of my ecourses? 

Quirky fact: I discovered that the plaque on the apartment where he died in Paris says he was born October 15, 1856, but his gravestone states he was born October 16, 1856. It’s not like the French to make errors in history and stone. No one seems quick to change one or the other, so I’ll just chalk it up to one of those quirky Paris finds.

Janice and Oscar in Paris

P.S. If you like random fun posts like this, subscribe and I’ll send them to you inbox. Think of these posts as calm little Paris-infused breaks. Good mental health moments.

P.P.S. Requisite FYI… Mother’s Day is coming. I created bundles of six Paris Letters in my Etsy shop for easy fun mail. You basically get two free letters, plus I’ll throw in random Paris-themed note cards if you type the secret word in the Notes section when placing your order: OSCAR. (A special bonus for those who subscribe to my email list.) There are bonus packs of statues, fountains, and spring scenes. For example…

There is also a literary pack for book nuts in your life. The letters are sent together in one pack and are flat for framing.

It’s not really a display without succulents.

 

I love gardening. I am not a good gardener. I start seeds that turn into seedlings… that die. I buy seedlings that I plant… that die. I water too much. I don’t water enough. And my tomatoes know it. And show it.

I love it. I love it all. 

Conversely, I was strolling through the aisles of the local fabric store admiring the balls of yarn, bolts of fabric and other haberdashery items. Stroking them. Wondering about them. Admiring them.

Then I promptly walked away to go kill more things in my garden.

And that is the difference between hobbies you should be running toward and those you should be running from. I’ll spend big money on my garden (almost without thinking about it) but can’t muster permission to put down a fiver for a few yards of fabric.

I’m also tossing much of my art journal “hobby.” I have realized that it takes up so much room in my actual room and in my brain. When I finally get to it, I find it rather boring. My art journal and I are not friends. She is bossy and gets high on guilt trips.

“Their friendship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead?” One Day, David Nicholls

I salivate and get all inspired by Instagrammers who make beautiful art journals. I’m just not one of them. In fact, I think I genuinely get more out of seeing their photos than creating my own pages. I blame mydocumentedlife. She’s just so good and I wish all my stuff were like her pages, but it’s not. And trying just makes me feel tired.

@mydocumentedlife

I’d rather fill my bird feeder for the cats next door. More entertaining. (All the cat lovers are nodding and the bird lovers are shaking their heads.)

I’m aware that I created this actual published art journal:

@thewanderlustbookclub

Sometimes it’s good to level with oneself. And this self is leaning toward the garden centre.

All this time at home (we are in another lockdown here) has me counting the Currency of Things. Sewing stashes and art journal materials is expensive in the currencies of time and mind space. I’d rather be blogging, writing, creating ecourses, and killing plants (not intentionally, just a side effect of my “skills”).

Is this part of spring fever? Am I going to start wanting to wash walls? Is this what is going on here? I’m actually excited to put stuff in the garbage bag, thereby giving myself a free pass and not feeling obligated to make art. I can’t believe I’m typing this but it’s true.

I invite you to do the same. Just fail big at a hobby and chuck all the stuff. The last time I did this, I ended up in Paris. I’m not sure what will happen this time, but I know for certain that for the moment, I’m just really excited about full garbage bags.

One of the side effects of this purging is finding material for writing. Seems I can’t walk by a ripped page of an atlas without being transported to a sunlit day of my angsty 20s. So I’ve been back to writing. And that feels good.

By the way…

I have a Spring Fever Sale on my Book Writing Course. Save $100 between now and April 15th. Then take that hundie directly to the garden centre and buy some plants. Try not to kill them.

Also, since I’ve just freed my mind of art journaling and sewing, I’ll be blogging more. Subscribe to the blog to get these sent to your inbox. I’m getting my freebies together so you’ll also be the first to know about new printables, ecourses, and plants I murder.

@judycormier

I’ve been loving all the photos of the new book and pets. Keep posting them on Instagram!

This week in my ecourse, A Writing Year, we are writing photo captions. What a missed opportunity this has been since cameras were invented! I have a friend who writes the wackiest photo captions on Facebook. He talks about the photo, but also mentions his life at the time… looking for cheap dental implants in Bangkok… eating a dodgy chicken and having a seizure on the side of the road as Indonesians wait for him to die. Crazy glorious writing! He’s the kind of guy who makes social media wonderful. Sure we all have issues with our screen time and the mangled fusions it is creating in our brains, but then I see his posts and am reminded that social media is also a wonderful forum for creativity.

By the way, you can still join A Writing Year ecourse. It is turning into a memoir-infused think tank of creativity. We share gems of our writing and are buoying each other along as we partake a gentle consistent writing practice for a year. Join here. (If you’ve already joined, login here.)

Here’s a few of my wonky photo captions. They aren’t all true. They only have a few bits of truth. Mostly poetic. And they aren’t the photos that end up getting printed or shared. They are photos in between, taken to remind me of a moment. And I’m certainly glad for that these days.

“Flipping through the new MUJI catalogue at a restaurant outside the Pantheon in Rome. British Airways lost my luggage and I had nothing but the clothes on my back. Came across a MUJI store, found a suitable frock for a few days and a catalogue of pens. Sitting outside the Pantheon, gazing at the new pen collection, wearing the dress still creased with folds, and a cold wine after a hot and bothered walk. I made it back to Rome and I knew I would be fine, able to turn it all around by going back to basics: comfortable dress, colourful pens, a bustling eatery. That was all I had to do. That was enough.”

“The entrance to Thunder Road was on Yonge and Eglinton in Toronto. New boyfriend. Old song. Screendoor slams, Mary’s dress waves, like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays…” That was all it took to make me want to hitch up to this ride. Thunder Road took a sharp turn to the 405 between Long Beach and Irvine, California. So much driving, but the musical education was worth it. Thunder Road forked outside a doctor’s office in Calgary as I caught my breath to get the results. It meandered through the mountains, over ski hills, through Prague, and finally down to the beach with the garden… and a porch of my own.”

“It didn’t make me crazy like it said it would.”

“The geraniums reminded me of the dream that I was once a 1950s housewife in Rome, wishing for an artsy life in California. It would never happen so I had to make it happen in the next life. The California dreamin’ life took me back to Rome where, if I let it, it could glue me in place at a kitchen sink and have me wash dishes all day long as I looked at the window at the geraniums. Rome is sticky. Need to wear shoes with soft tread.”

Posting photos isn’t even required to get a good paragraph:

“She just started dancing. Arms out, flailing. Head back, laughing. And I wondered when dancing went from flailing and laughing to controlled and self-conscious. I kicked out my leg. Then an arm. And in doing so, shed a few  of those angry years and became young again.”

“Tom’s Liquor was ‘our place.’ The junction between his house and mind. ‘Tom’s?’ he would ask. And off we would trod toward each other. Years later, after life had us walking in different directions, he would occasionally send me a message. ‘Tom’s?’ and I would smile. Yes. We created a shorthand with each other. Just anticipating the meeting, and remembering the old, was enough.”

During these days of various forms of lockdown, it is nice to cruise through the travel photos and write little tidbits. Sometimes the captions are from alter egos. Sometimes fictional characters. Sometimes it’s the God’s honest truth but I veil in “fiction” to keep me brave.

RECENT NEWSWORTHIES:

Dear Paris is #1 in many categories on Amazon. Thank you for all this. If you haven’t picked up a copy for yourself and all your friends, please do. People have been posting the book with fun sidekicks:

Instagram: Andrews McMeel, my fantastic publisher. Macarons always make a good sidekick.

 

Instagram: juliejmacleod, who made me this delicious Pub Day cake. The day the book came out was quieter with our lockdown restrictionsthan other Pub Days, but this time there was time for napping so I didn’t mind.

 

Instagram: la_joie_de_livre, added the other books as sidekicks and has also been instrumental in taking great photos of all my books for years.

 

Instagram: Judy Cromier, because it’s not a true Paris book without a cat.

BOOKS

Dear Paris: It is now available in the USA and Canada, April 7th in Australia and New Zealand, April 15th in Europe April 15th.A Paris Year: Named one of the Top 10 Most Beautiful Books by USA Today.Paris Letters: The book that started it all, now a New York Times best seller.

COURSES

A Writing Year: An inspiring writing lesson each week for a year.Book Writing: Learn how to write that book that is burning in your soul.

JOIN THE LIST

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We’re getting near the end of the pandemic. The vaccines are being approved and distributed. One two three! The new case numbers appear to be on a downward trajectory. And I think many of us have stopped looking for loopholes. Where I live, you can have up to 10 people over to your house. Six months ago people were having 11 and establishing who would run out the back door if the coppers arrived.

Honestly. We were having these conversations.

Now we can have 10 people over and we don’t even bother. We stand a little closer to the neighbour on our front yards and call that progress.

Look at us, winning.

Oh a year ago! A year ago we were traipsing around the big city, sitting elbow to elbow in crowded restaurants, popping into stores to look for non-essential purchases. (I bought a Culture Club album and we’ve been listening to Karma Chameleon for a year. Amélie is a pro with the record player and we set it on a low table for her to DJ her own fun.)

Oh a year ago! How we were swimming in clouds of other people’s breath without a concern in the world.

Then slam, lockdown, masks, “the big shop” for groceries.

And you do it. You hunker down, do what’s best for the community, and wait it out. You’re being a good sport about it, laughing about All Day PJs and hand sanitizer rashes. You Zoom like a pro.

Oh six months ago! The vaccine race was on. First to create it. Then to get it. Then to discuss whether you’re getting it or not. We stared at images on TV of bare arms getting shots. And we liked it.

And that brings us to now. We feel near the end of the waiting and all the emotions we’ve held at bay are simmering uncomfortably close to the surface. We are getting choked up at the wrong times. We are about to burst.

It reminds me of the two weeks before vacation.

In Paris, most shops close for the month August. In the two weeks prior, everyone is fighting with everyone. Colleagues who usually have an after work apéro suddenly have to get home and can’t make it. Friends are irritating. Neighbours walk by with nary a Bonjour, pretending they don’t see each other. Everyone is tired. Tired of the heat. Tired of each other. Tired of tourists. So they all take it out on each other. They know all will be forgotten and forgiven after a month at the beach.

So we, globally, are in this tricky two weeks before vacation.

We’re tired of being good sports about it and want to be big babies about it.

And that’s why we need to put some projects to the side and bring self-care to the forefront. We need to remind each other to drink water. We must sit in the bathtub and sulk alone. We must reduce the caffeine in order to induce the naps.

And that’s just the physical health. We need basic basic basic. Drink water. Move body. Eat apples. Sleep. Repeat. Buy our self some non-essentials.

We need some Karma Chameleon. Go ahead, click on the photo to go listen to it on YouTube. It helps.

Amélie doesn’t know all the words so she makes them up, which is perfect since I never knew all the words either. I’m not sure what we’re singing during our impromptu Solid Gold moments. Speaking of solid gold…

The new book, Dear Paris, came out on March 9th. It would mean so much to me if you would buy it for your favourite Francophile, especially if that is you. If you’re so inclined, make this book your Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, surprise gifts, gifts to Paris lovers. Links to purchase here.

You’ll be able to read 140 illustrated letters about Paris. Most of them are one page long, perfect for our short attention span lives these days. And even if you don’t want to read, you have pretty pictures to look at to help you fantasize about a day when you can traipse around a big city and sit elbow to elbow in crowded restaurants without a care in the world.

PS Learn more about Dear Paris and get links on where to buy it here.

PPS If you’d like love notes like this delivered to your inbox, sign up here.

We’re getting near the end of the pandemic. The vaccines are being approved and distributed. One two three! The new case numbers appear to be on a downward trajectory. And I think many of us have stopped looking for loopholes. Where I live, you can have up to 10 people over to your house. Six months ago people were having 11 and establishing who would run out the back door if the coppers arrived.

Honestly. We were having these conversations.

Now we can have 10 people over and we don’t even bother. We stand a little closer to the neighbour on our front yards and call that progress.

Look at us, winning.

Oh a year ago! A year ago we were traipsing around the big city, sitting elbow to elbow in crowded restaurants, popping into stores to look for non-essential purchases. (I bought a Culture Club album and we’ve been listening to Karma Chameleon for a year. Amélie is a pro with the record player and we set it on a low table for her to DJ her own fun.)

Oh a year ago! How we were swimming in clouds of other people’s breath without a concern in the world.

Then slam, lockdown, masks, “the big shop” for groceries.

And you do it. You hunker down, do what’s best for the community, and wait it out. You’re being a good sport about it, laughing about All Day PJs and hand sanitizer rashes. You Zoom like a pro.

Oh six months ago! The vaccine race was on. First to create it. Then to get it. Then to discuss whether you’re getting it or not. We stared at images on TV of bare arms getting shots. And we liked it.

And that brings us to now. We feel near the end of the waiting and all the emotions we’ve held at bay are simmering uncomfortably close to the surface. We are getting choked up at the wrong times. We are about to burst.

It reminds me of the two weeks before vacation.

In Paris, most shops close for the month August. In the two weeks prior, everyone is fighting with everyone. Colleagues who usually have an after work apéro suddenly have to get home and can’t make it. Friends are irritating. Neighbours walk by with nary a Bonjour, pretending they don’t see each other. Everyone is tired. Tired of the heat. Tired of each other. Tired of tourists. So they all take it out on each other. They know all will be forgotten and forgiven after a month at the beach.

So we, globally, are in this tricky two weeks before vacation.

We’re tired of being good sports about it and want to be big babies about it.

And that’s why we need to put some projects to the side and bring self-care to the forefront. We need to remind each other to drink water. We must sit in the bathtub and sulk alone. We must reduce the caffeine in order to induce the naps.

And that’s just the physical health. We need basic basic basic. Drink water. Move body. Eat apples. Sleep. Repeat. Buy our self some non-essentials.

We need some Karma Chameleon. Go ahead, click on the photo to go listen to it on YouTube. It helps.

Amélie doesn’t know all the words so she makes them up, which is perfect since I never knew all the words either. I’m not sure what we’re singing during our impromptu Solid Gold moments. Speaking of solid gold…

The new book, Dear Paris, comes out on Tuesday March 9th. It would mean so much to me if you would buy it for your favourite Francophile, especially if that is you. If you’re so inclined, make this book your Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, surprise gifts, gifts to Paris lovers. It counts for more if all the orders happen by launch day (this Tuesday), which is why I’m going on about it. Links to purchase here.

You’ll be able to read 140 illustrated letters about Paris. Most of them are one page long, perfect for our short attention span lives these days. And even if you don’t want to read, you have pretty pictures to look at to help you fantasize about a day when you can traipse around a big city and sit elbow to elbow in crowded restaurants without a care in the world.

PS Learn more about Dear Paris and get links on where to buy it here.

PPS If you’d like love notes like this delivered to your inbox, sign up here.

You’re tired and it’s okay.

You watch too much TV.

You’ve switched out fruits and veg with chips and cookies.

You’re not sleeping.

You’re sleeping too much.

The simplest tasks are falling behind.

You’ve got the time.

And yet.

You’re hypnotically putting items in shopping carts online without buying.

You’re buying online just to have something to look forward to in the mail.

Your toenails are too long.

The books aren’t getting read.

The art you never had time for before still isn’t getting made.

Pasta is always on the menu.

In 5 years, you’ll look back at this time.

You’ll wish you cut yourself some slack.

So cut yourself some slack.

Even if you’re generally peppy and over-the-moon optimistic.

You’re still human living in a society.

That society is connected by a collective grief.

And that makes you tired.

And that’s okay.

Spring WILL come.

A few cheerful items: 

Paris Letters is still on sale over at the Amazon kindle shop… a mere $2.99 USD (plus price matched elsewhere).

Luke Evans singing “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.” He plays Gaston in the newer version of Beauty and the Beast. He adds empathy to his songs, and I find it helpful, especially if you’re tired (and that’s okay).

Based on the title, we already know what happened.

I was heading to Big City Big Lights, a two-hour drive away, to do a few corrections for the audiobook version of Dear Paris. I was nervous because I needed to download the instructions onto the ol’ iPad before I left the house, had to rehearse how to correctly say Hieronymus Bosch, Anne Marie d’Orléans, beatification and other errors of judgment I included in the manuscript in the first place.

The roads were bad. Snow ahoy.

Now, having lived in California, I’ve had a lot of practice at driving fast in tight situations. I have less experience with slow and steady in snow, so I was nervous about that as well. I left early, reasoning that I would drive slow and if I was there very early, I’d grab lunch.

Halfway there, I noticed my purse was not along. And this moment is where we shift into survival mode.

1. Turn back? If I went home to get my purse, I would be very late. This was to be about an hour of recording. Was this worth it?

2. Take inventory. I looked at the gas. I had enough to get there and back. I had a half-eaten apple from my daughter in the backseat. Also half frozen. Bottle of water. I would forge ahead.

3. Map out contact points. As the snow continued to whip around the car in impressive drifts, I mapped out who I could find if I needed help: Uncles, aunts, friends… people I could count on to be cool with me showing up at their front door unexpected during a pandemic lockdown so I could ask for money, food, and maybe a bed.

4. Go Zen. I’d forge ahead and think about how to solve problems if they became problems. I remembered a moment when I was close to burnout at my job in LA. I was driving to work and was about to turn onto the road toward work. But what if I didn’t turn. What if I kept going? I had water, a yoga mat, gym clothes, a wallet. I could go for DAYS. I could sell my car at a dealership near an airport and just… go. But I didn’t have my passport. And if I never returned to my apartment, other people would have to sort through my mess. So I turned up that road, went to work, came home and began cleaning out my closets (I suppose this moment is the prequel to Paris Letters, now a Kindle Deal for $2.99 USD.)

5. Talk with ghosts. I consulted dead grandparents and asked them questions, requesting guidance and extra traction. They answered. All seemed quite calm in the car, when minutes earlier it was filled with the stench of my self-created anxiety.

In the end, I arrived, did the recording, repeatedly mispronounced words, thereby flummoxing the sound guy who was patient and kind (he probably had HIS wallet). Soon I was back in the car heading home. Five hours of driving. One hour of recording. One glorious tank of gas. One half eaten apple that I did, in fact, finish eating. And one finished audiobook. Praise the Lord, I was home.

Hear a clip…

PS If you like reading random thoughts about snowstorms, ghosts, and my errors in judgment, subscribe to the list. Freebies are coming. You’ll be the first to know. Subscribe here.

 

Last summer there was a giant book sale at my local library. I went thrice. Each time, I was given a sturdy file box with a lid and instructed to fill it as much or as little as I wanted. Same price for every box.

This is one of those funny side effects of a pandemic. 

I’m sure the library volunteers noticed the lack of foot traffic. Usually, this sale is held at the big festivals and the boxes of books travel from festival to festival. They are sold off, the donations are put toward the library, room is made on the shelves for the new titles to come, and everyone is happy. However, since there were no big festivals, the books weren’t exactly flying off the tables. And near the end the volunteers were fretting over having so many books left to pack away and put… somewhere.

Fear not, help has arrived. 

Every person who showed up at my door last summer was escorted to the book sale around the corner. We were in between lockdowns at the time. When my guests discovered the fill-up-the-box system, they participated in earnest. And the boxes came with lids, so no one was going to see just how many or what titles we had chosen.

It was glorious. 

Months later, in a fresh lockdown, I have this STASH of BOOKS to read on my shelf. What a treasure trove! Some were rescues… hardcover copies of some of my favourite books, some were intriguing, some of them were duds, but that’s okay. It was all for a good cause… she says with shifty eyes. 

Right now I’m reading Help, Thanks, Wow by Anne Lamott and to her I want to say “It helped.Thanks! Wow.” A mere hundred pages, which suits this short attention span just fine.

Speaking of short attention spans, my new book Dear Paris has 1 and 2 page chapters. That’s it. A whole load of short attention span theatre. They say to be the change you want to see in the world. What I wanted was books with short chapters so I wrote one. Pre-order it if you please. It comes out a month from today so you won’t have to wait long. Also Forbes said nice things about it:

Hey Forbes, “Thanks. Wow!” I realize Forbes is a big deal. But to me, just as big a deal is being featured on Instagram in this cute way:

Paris Matchbox is an Instagram artist who started making matchbox Christmas ornaments and just kept going and going. I’ve been following her as a fan so I was surprised when a wee Paris Letters book showed up in her latest art. To her, another “Thanks. Wow!” I do so love when people take on an art project.

My art project for this year is my year long writing course. Each week I write up something poetic for the lessons and it is keeping my writing skills sharp.

Writing. You know how it goes.

At first you start writing in a journal and it’s all just CRAP and TIRESOME and BORING and DUMB and AWFUL. Then you kind of get in the hang of it and it isn’t so bad. You even start to miss it if you take a few days off. Later you run the risk of only having journals filled with “Gosh I’d like to write something great one day” instead of writing the great things. For me, A WRITING YEAR ecourse is a delightful way to edit my runaway journal thoughts into something nicely edited and lovely to read. To the journal, I wanted to say, “Help. Thanks. Wow!” (I did a new video on the writing course page… despite many versions, I still look thirsty, but it’s going to have to be good enough.) Technology during the pandemic. “Help. Thanks. Wow!”

Speaking of, I’m off to do some YouTube yoga. Technology again… “Help. Thanks. Wow!”

PS Kindle made Paris Letters a Monthly Deal, only $2.99 USD. Get links here. Hey, Kindle… “Thanks. Wow!”

I’ve been pondering the tenuous connections and how they have just disappeared with all our various forms of lockdown since last March. The coffee shop faces. The interesting encounters. The people we intersect with, but might not even talk with most days in a regular routine.

Those on the Périphérique of our lives.

The Périphérique is the ring road that surrounds central Paris. Living within the ring has a certain je ne c’est quoi about it. Living outside the ring probably means you’re not nearly as snooty as those of us obsessed with the inside of the ring.

The inner circle of our friendships. That’s happening. We try Zoom. We call. We text. We Thumbs Up.

It’s the other people… the faces we know but whose names we don’t… they are missing. Even the wish to see a familiar face is gone, or the hope of an interesting encounter. We meet more people and get more job opportunities from those on the outer edges of our relationships than from those in our inner circle. The connections are tenuous and we like it that way. If it doesn’t work out, no problem. No weirdness.

I remember having this crush on this guy at my coffee shop. Sometimes my day’s happiness would hinge on that daily morning encounter. Maybe that’s not healthy either but it sure gave a spring in my step during some dreary days. If this pandemic happened during the time I had my eyes on that guy, I’d be seriously bummed.

The only people we are, and should be, seeing are our inner circle and the cashiers. We shouldn’t even be tempting others with invitations because it puts them in a situation where it is difficult to decline. Even colleagues are harder to read with face coverings, so we don’t bother. We move on, zombie-like, in a half state of humanness. This article states “Strip out the humanity, and there’s nothing but the transaction left.” The article also mentions this startling fact:

 

“…social isolation increases the risk of premature death from any cause by almost 30 percent… People maintain hygiene, take their medication, and try to hold themselves together at least in part because those behaviours are socially necessary, and their repetition is rewarded. Remove those incentives, and some people fall into despair, unable to perform some of the crucial tasks of being alive. In people at risk for illness, lack of interaction can mean that symptoms go unnoticed and arrangements for medical care aren’t made. Humans are meant to be with one another, and when we aren’t, the decay shows in our bodies.”

Concerning.

After the Paris attacks in 2015, I was desperate to find familiar faces. My friends were fine, but the faces whose names we don’t know, whose contact information would seem odd to have… those people. How are they? Where are they? There was a moment on our street when we were huddled with people, each of us trying to find out about someone. We would describe “the older gentleman with ‘the hat’.” Someone would nod.  “Ah yes, saw him at the market yesterday.” Or “The cat lady… She’s fine but frazzled. Delivered her groceries this afternoon.” (This is still a service in France) Even the post office staff who are difficult and stern whenever I ask for too many stamps (!!!) seemed genuinely glad to see my familiar face.

There are weird side effects cropping up.

A lot of things in a lot of online shopping carts. Not buying, just mindless shopping.Went to the pharmacy the other day and even the compression socks were looking stylish.Amélie’s dollies have all been getting sick and have been sleeping under washcloths.Rereading books to visit beloved characters as a sort of salve on the current situation.Complete delight when a new blog post is available from some of my favourite bloggers. Here are five:Write MegDispatch from LAIn the Vintage KitchenThe Postman’s KnockDavid Lebovitz

These bloggers have been at it a long time. So many bloggers have stopped, including myself. Somewhere along the line the world’s gaze moved to Instagram. (But that just makes me put more clothes in shopping carts these days.) Getting a new blog post is great fun. Something nice to look at in the inbox full of GAP emails and junk I signed up for just to save 10% on my first purchase.

Ugh. Where is the humanity, indeed?!?!?! 

If you want my blog posts in your inbox as a nice treat in the otherwise monotonous half-life we are in, sign up here. I’m going to focus more on blog posts. I just think it’s nice to write nice things for nice people who might find it nice. I want it to feel like a good cup of tea. Plus, I’m trying to keep you alive. See 30% stat above. YIKES.

If you’re already reading this from your inbox, you are the best and I love you so much you are now in the inner circle, my périphérique.

If you have blog recommendations, please let me and everyone know in the Comments section. (I know it’s glitchy sometimes. I know you’re not a robot.)

PS My new book, DEAR PARIS is coming out in March. It’s the entire collection of 140 illustrated letters about Paris, European cities and other fun travel destinations. Pre-ordering is the best way to support an author. All the orders go through on the same day, which helps launch its success. Ordering just one day after is nice, but not nearly as helpful as a pre-order. Amazon link and other links here.

Now go out there and wave profusely to strangers as if your life depended on it. Because it just might.

Pivots ahoy with this COVID business. It makes a person feel rather out of control in any and all situations. I had to pivot recently when there was the question of recording the audiobook version of Dear Paris, which comes out March 2021 so order pronto. Thanks.

Shameless plugs.

Anyway, I never thought I’d be chosen to record my audiobook. Leave that to the professionals, like the talented Tavia Gilbert who recorded one of my previous books Paris Letters.

Just look at that face. That’s the kind of face you can trust to handle your book.

I remember listening to Paris Letters, the audiobook. I was on a midnight bus traveling through Poland, listening to Tavia say my words, grateful I didn’t have to listen to my own voice. Do we all feel we sound like we have a cold?

Anyway, the publisher brought up the audiobook and asked my opinion. I SHEEPISHLY offered up my experience and a sample of my voice and READILY forwarded Tavia to do the job once they discovered my nasal squeak.

Turns out, they picked me. Thanks? But there was the problem with a closed border. So we recorded in Toronto.

And to my astonishment and delight, the sound person was the kindest, most patient person who played back a few recordings of my voice to show me that the nasal squeak was literally all in my head. Hearing your voice from inside your head is much different than the real deal.

So for three days, Ashton the sound genius and myself recorded this audiobook. I don’t have a picture of him. Imagine a guy with a face mask.

Turns out, recording audiobooks is like sitting in the middle seat of a plane for three days. Don’t move a muscle. And in real life I don’t fall over my words, but in front of a microphone I averaged three sentences, flubbed up, went back half a sentence, continued on. And we did that until it was done.

Two steps forward, one step back. 

Half way through, the government announced a new lockdown, which was to commence about six minutes after the final sentence was recorded.

People who record audiobooks for a living are amazing. I’m not saying I’m amazing. But Tavia and Ashton… amazing people.

What if some of the obstacles we are dealing with these days are perfect timing in disguise?

Because of all these pivots, I was able to record near home with the patient Ashton. I could walk my familiar (but barren) streets of Toronto. I could avoid sleeping in a hotel. All these things mattered when faced with COVID and not knowing how vulnerable I am because of that chemo situation a while back.

These pivots are like bowling for children.

When you start bowling as a kid, they put inflatable tubes over the gutters so your bowling ball bounces from one side to the other and eventually makes it to the pins.

Best not to see obstacles as roadblocks, but inflatable tubes gently getting you down the lane. 

While all this recording was going on, I happened to be reading Julia Cameron’s new book:

Yep. A book about listening. And that’s exactly what I was doing while recording. Listening to the sound of my own voice for three intense days. I started by judging my own voice, but then there was just the desire to move the project along, one page at a time. There are 140 letters in the book, so when each letter was complete there was a delighted sigh from both myself and Ashton… okay, next one. So the previous judgements were replaced by feelings of accomplishment. Eventually, I was able to get into a groove, and talk from the cradle of voice in my chest rather than the fearful breathy nervous voice that I started with on day one.

Isn’t this where we all want to be? To be able to talk from the strong foundation of our true voice that comes from our chest and not from our nose?

I suppose that’s what my new writing courses are all about… finding that voice, but through a pen and paper. A WRITING YEAR is in its third week and it’s dawning on me that all the projects up to now: the books, the letters, the copywriting… they’ve all led me to teaching writing courses. And I’m starting to think this is what I was meant to be doing.

 

With the Paris Letter subscription, I wondered… gosh… how long can I keep this up? And with all these lockdowns in Paris, I truly do wonder how on earth I would have managed to write a positive and pretty letter at this point.

But I don’t have to because I’m writing sweet lessons with my writing course. The themes thus far have been:

The students have been volunteering up revelations about their own writing. It’s like candy.

If you feel compelled to adopt a consistent writing practice this year, join the course. You might discover that the sound of your own voice is also the voice of a good friend.