The Sun is enormous and powerful and huge in the sky and unobstructed and shining its rays directly on Me. I obey. I respond fully with face tilted up. I remain motionless in a trance-like state. I absorb. This is God and I am in heaven. It is a morning like this that a strong double espresso or two or three and a cigarette are perfectly fathomable. Together on a morning like this these are not things of guilt these are holy. I imagine the smell of nostalgia as the pretty white romantic ribbons unfurl through the illuminated air, sensually snaking between the divine beams that pour through my venetian blinds and decorate me with tiger stripes.
The Korean girls are still here so I settle for the vision and a single noisette. Despite the sun it is nine below. It is the third day of Spring and it’s nine below. What a mess and a shame and at this point I’ve run out of clever new ways to complain. How I would love to vent and find clever new ways to complain. Instead I settle in on the high road with a good book and a laptop that still works so I won’t let the weather be a thing for the moment. I stay a still and silent disciple to the simple striking solar saviour and to my glorified word processor and to “The Paris Wife” which is very well written and is inspiring to me in much the same way these ethereal morning rays are.
It is written in the first person and this has surprised and delighted me. I am immediately on board. I can’t put the book down and I am relieved at this because a new book will either be good or bad but it’s always a bit of a gamble in the beginning and for me this is a bit of a stress. I am very happy that in this case it’s a very good book. I am paying close attention to the writing. The detail provided and on what types of things. Style, of course, though I hope to have my own voice completely. Vocabulary. Imagery. Sentence length. Paragraph length. Chapter length. Chapter introduction and conclusion. Rhythm. Cadence. Plot. Character development. Everything. This Paula McLain is an excellent writer!
I mentally try to articulate a reason or the reason why I am loving this book so much. I cannot. I cannot explain in a phrase how it is that I love it completely and right from the prologue. Like Love at first sight. Perhaps it is something that cannot be named and it is just like that other Love that in the end after reasons can only be attributed to a je ne sais quoi. Flash, the French call it; the English: chemistry. Can one have chemistry with a book?
Enough of these ramblings! I write and I write and I say nothing at all. I stay safely in practice and dream and desire and one day. I have learnt the importance of writing daily or near-daily so now say something already! Try! Fail! Learn! Grow! MOVE. It is time to write a story, my dear. The Korean girls have gone, the cigarette tasted badly, the house has been cleaned, the sun did not come up over the building, the coffee’s run out, the temperature has risen to a disappointing minus eight, and there is nothing left to say!
There is always something left to say!