Writing in Paris--Part Une

I have long had the move to Paris and write fantasy. It is a common enough fantasy. It goes much like this: I get a fabulous little pied-à-terre overlooking the Seine. You know the kind, très charming and beaucoup artsy and suitably romantic---but no so romantic that I am so pining uncontrollably for my husband and unable to get any work done. After all, I am in Paris to write.

I would wake every a.m. to a Café crème and a croissant and write. Spending the whole day writing---being so inspired by the muses who obviously are full time residents in Paris. The Greek siblings of inspiration share an apartment in the sixth arrondissement and rarely, if ever, visit where I live in the suburbs---except on occasion to inspire an attorney to write a convincing closing or a high school senior to write a winning college entrance essay for a deserving overachiever.

The length of my Paris writing getaway has never been fleshed out. I suppose long enough to write a brilliant book, get an agent, get an enormous advance and then buy a fantastic apartment in the 7th or the 6th. I would live a quiet, beautiful little life in Paris and occasionally come back to the states for book tours and to fill an occasional craving for a double-double at "In and Out Burger."

I have never invested much in this fantasy.... other than reading the diaries of Anaïs Nin, the novels of Henry Miller and every other author I can find who has lived my Paris dream (or at least a portion of it). I have been dubious about the trajectory of my fantasy. Would I really write while in Paris or would I spend my days window shopping and trying to find the perfect perfume or, perhaps, decide I need to go to a different museum every day---after all, how often am I in Paris?

There would likely be three hour lunches that involved several glasses of red wine and a desert or two that would prove a powerful soporific and I would then unwillingly surrender to a time stealing afternoon nap. Upon waking, I would decide to walk over to Monoprix and pick up some things for a light dinner, maybe some cheese, some fruit, another bottle of wine, some costume jewelry, a new French toothpaste and a magazine.

As I would walk back to my flat, I would grow depressed realizing I have wasted yet another day and, once again, written absolutely nothing. I would make grand and vacuous promises to myself that tomorrow would be different. Then I would come up with a retail solution to my existential problem. Telling myself that what I really need to get myself writing is an antique Mont Blanc pen and a new cahier (like the one I saw at La Samaritaine the last time I was in Paris. Only, Samaritaine is closed. So, where will I find a notebook just like it?).

Another day would come and instead of writing I would take all my create energy and use it to invent another reason not to write. I will tell myself that I need to go to Café Deux Maggots. I might find some left over inspiration there that Picasso or Gertrude Stein left lying around waiting to be claimed. Once there, instead of doing any important writing, I write post cards to friends and family and lie to them and tell them how well it is going. The cycle would continue. That is until...

To be continued....