Paris is for Writers

I'll admit it. My resolve to remain a writer has, over the last year, been a little shaky. Difficulty selling a book, getting an agent and then some personal losses have all taken their toll. Feeling rung out, I started thinking that a job as a waitress might be more gratifying. At least there would be tips. And if a customer complains about their meatloaf it doesn't hurt near as much as when someone rejects your novel.

When a friend suggested we go to a writers' retreat in Paris, I jumped. Wow, Paris! I'd never been. And oh yeah there was the writing part too. I figured I could fudge that. Truthfully, by the time I arrived at the Hotel Saint Louis, I'd already resolved to give up writing all together. But to my surprise, my resolve splintered. After the mornings of writing in the Luxembourg gardens, after rich lunches in some of the same cafes where Hemingway drank his whisky and laid down his prose, after wandering around the grand boulevards and narrow alleys of Paris, my writer's soul woke up and I began writing again. Just as the Lost Generation - Hemingway, James Joyce, Fitzgerald - did, I also discovered the spell that Paris casts on writers.

Now I am home, with only photos and journal entries as reminders of my time away. But, at least for today, I am not thinking about filling out an application for Denny's. And that is a good thing.