Janice MacLeod's Blog, page 16

Paris Keys, August’s Letters and the agonizing search for book titles

August’s Paris Letter is in the shop. It’s about all the fancy keys you’ll find in an old broad of a town like Paris.

A few keys I found at the flea market…

And a few key chains for those keys from the souvenir shop…

This is a recent key I received for an apartment stay in Paris…

Featured alongside the famed Uni-Ball Vision Micro pen in black for scale. This pen is my main pal during most of my writing sessions. I like its grip, its flow, its nib and its wide availability. In the USA, one pen is about $1.50, in Canada it’s about $2, and in Paris, one pen is about $5, so stock up before you head to Paris.

If you’re on a colouring kick, here’s the original sketch of the key… sketched with a pencil, then outlined with the aforementioned Uni-Ball Vision Micro.

Click it or drag it or do whatever your computer or device does to grab the image, then colour at will.

There is a book about Paris’ keys, aptly called THE PARIS KEY.

A nice quote from the book:

Blackwell also has a book coming out this autumn called LETTERS FROM PARIS. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but hey, the key is to stay ahead of the rest. Pun intended.

I had Letters from Paris as one of my title options, but I just loathed the word “from.” Writers are odd about words. Well, some writers anyway. I found that the word from didn’t feel good to say. It’s a mouthful of a word. From. Try it. From. fr-auh-m. I had this discussion with my sister, who thought I was nuts for thinking  from was an issue. So she said, “Then just get rid of it, gawd!” So that’s what happened, along with a slight word shuffle:

Much better.

Recently, I had a similar issue with my new book, which I was calling PARIS YEAR. Two words. Doesn’t muck up the layout, easy to say, goes with the first, but the editor bristled. She thought it needed more, and suggested A PARIS YEAR.

Mulling ensued. Meetings were booked. Emails were lobbied back and forth.

Over a one letter word: A.

In the end, I came around and began to like how A PARIS YEAR rolled off the tongue. And it’s much better than another option, THE PARIS YEAR, which might sound good to some, but THE sounds like ZE when Christophe says it and I cannot hear ZE PARIS YEAR in my house until the end of time. It makes me bristle for a myriad of reasons. ZE isn’t as bad as FROM but it’s also not as good as A.

See how the writer’s mind works? It’s madness living with this noggin. So in the end, the final title is:

A PARIS YEAR

My day to day adventures in the most romantic city in the world

Rather exiting, non? A few pages:

The book moves from January to December, taking the reader though the seasons and the discoveries I made in my strolls around Paris.

Inspired by the wealth of positive feedback from this post back in January. Thanks!

And one piece of negative feedback from Mme Nasty, who has always nipped at my heels. Her feedback helped me decide to fully go for it. Thanks!

The book also includes details about my ghostly meetings with Hemingway:

Everyone has a ghost in Paris.

The  catalog copy reads:

“An illustrated love letter to the City of Light. Part memoir, and part visual journey through the streets of modern-day Paris, A Paris Year chronicles, day by day, one woman’s sojourn in the world’s most beautiful city. Beginning on her first day in Paris, Janice MacLeod, the author of the best-selling book, Paris Letters, began a journal recording in illustrations and words, nearly every sight, smell, taste, and thought she experienced in the City of Light. The end result is more than a diary: it’s a detailed and colorful love letter to one of the most romantic and historically rich cities on earth. Combining personal observations and anecdotes with stories and facts about famous figures in Parisian history, this visual tale of discovery, through the eyes of an artist, is sure to delight, inspire and charm.”

And the bio reads:

“JANICE MacLEOD, the illustrator and author of the New York Times best-selling book Paris Letters, was born in Canada and worked in advertising for many years until she decided to slip away from corporate drudgery and spend time abroad. During her time in Paris, she painted letters about her travels and mailed them to friends, who encouraged her to sell the personalized illustrated letters on Etsy. Since then, MacLeod has sent out thousands of letters to fans worldwide.”

I love how it seems like I just slipped away from the daily grind. If only it were that easy.

Devoting to done: The magic of completing unfinished business

So the new book is done and delivered. I’m now going back and forth with the publishing house, and once we agree on the title, I’ll shout it from all four corners of this little acre of cyberspace.

After the book was due, I had two sets of guests. I spent a couple weeks dining in and dining out, laughing it up, arranging and yapping. All that gorgeous guest stuff.

I’m not great at living just anywhere, but I’m great at being a tourist wherever I am. So, we went to the Calgary Stampede, Banff, and Lake Louise like the good tourists we were.

Then the guests left.

I slept and ate weird things for lunch. A myriad of leftovers from the fridge. One can dine well on cold rice, half a peach, hard boiled egg, dribble of juice, brie, crackers, and grapes.

Then the scary thing happened.

I had nothing to do. For months I’ve been obsessed with finishing this book. I was racing to finish, largely because I knew it would ALMOST be complete AROUND when the guests arrived. And when they arrived I’d get no traction on the page.

Each day I would calculate “10 pages a day, 5 days this week, 50 pages…. done June 28” and if I didn’t get 10 pages done each day I’d recalculate, “8 pages a day, 5 days a week, 48 pages… done June 29” and on and on it went until I submitted that manuscript. The contract was still being vetted by the due date so that bought me a week. The mercy of projects sitting on other people’s desks.

The scary thing about having nothing to do…

The mind is blank, like when you realize you are truly 100% lost in the woods, have lost all sense of direction and believe that the best course of action is to curl up and stay quiet.

But, the mind isn’t so interested in having nothing to do, so it forms plans. After a few days of curling up and staying quiet, the list of unfinished business began to pour forth. I have basically abandoned listing my archive of Paris Letters, Travel Letters, and Painted Letters on my shop since… well I’ve been meaning to do it but never got to it. So, listing the archive was a top priority on my list of unfinished business.

It took me a week, but now every letter is up there… except for a few that I just never liked. Go ahead, check it out… five years of Paris Letters in glorious technicolor. I also added some fun digital downloads for all your Paris-inspired scrapbooking needs. I’m a giver.

This was a very big project that haunted me since last September when I started to solidify my new book.

And this morning, the day after the Paris Letters archive is done, the magic of completing unfinished business transpired.

I wrote the full outline of a course I’ve been desperate to create but didn’t know where to start. It was as if “List the Paris Letters archive” was blocking the creativity of the course. Now that the one was done, the other flowed out like, well, like magic.

So if you want to get something done and don’t know how to do it, you may have to turn away from it completely and review your list of unfinished business instead to look for blockers. This may seem counter intuitive but it’s a nice tool in the arsenal titled “Stuck And What To Do About It.”

You might start with writing a list of unfinished business. So often, we don’t write it down and the task just hovers around our head like a black fly. Writing it down is like swatting that fly out of the air and onto the page. Then, when a pocket of space is carved out, you won’t have to wonder what that thing was you wanted to get done. It will be right there, splat on the page. You can devote to done much faster. Then presto… the real work becomes clear.

Now, to get to the rest of my list, which is light in comparison. Big on the list is buying the Rick Steve’s Travel Backpack:

This bag is super light and deceivingly large. Check this out:

Those are giant man running shoes in that top pocket. That’s equal to at least three pairs of my lady shoes. By the way, I’m not an affiliate of Rick Steve’s products, just a fan.

This may seem like a small item on my list of unfinished business, but it’s been on my list for months and I’ll need that bag in a few weeks. Yikes!

I’m not even over Philip Seymour Hoffman

And Robin Williams is still slumped by the door.

Prince is leaning in the elevator, hoping to get where he is going before he’s gone.

And David Bowie’s last video still runs through the back of my mind.

Then there are the videos that flutter under eyelids in that moment between awake and asleep.

The amateur Charlie Hebdo video barely faded before the videos of the Paris attacks came along.

I barely had five minute for Orlando before Dallas happened.

Then this business in Nice. Families giving their children a treat of staying up late for fireworks.

How long will I have for this before something else comes along?

It’s a quiet day in France again.

Paris Letters and the glory of ebooks

I woke this morning to a lovely surprise, this lovely photo of Paris Letters by runwaychef over at Instagram. She’s a satisfying follow.

With this summer sunshine, I’m noticing the need to have a print book outside. The problem is the reflection of my chin. At the angle I read the ebook, my chin is ginormous. Though most of my books are ebooks these days, so I have to practice self-compassion while I read if I choose to read outside. *pompous predicament*

A word about the glory of the ebook.

A friend asked what I’ve been reading lately. He wanted some recommendations for summer. As you may or may not know, I’m writing another book about Paris (due tomorrow… EEK) so I’ve slunk away from the world.

Or maybe you didn’t notice at all. It’s cool. *sulks*

I told my friend the truth. I’ve been reading samples. The samples have come from Amazon. You can read the first few chapters of a book, then decide if you want to buy it. Some samples have been a joy, and I buy the book. Some are so-so, and I don’t. Recently, a sample that turned into a purchase was The Paris Effect by K.S.R. Burns.

Another book that turned from sample to purchase was The Paris Architect by Charles Belfoure.

I’ve also been reading highlights of past books. I so enjoy the highlight feature with an ebook. I highlight pleasant passages as I read, then later, when I’ve got a short attention span but still have the desire to read, I scroll through my treasured highlights. All the shine, none of the dull. I had a print book in my hand the other day and I actually touched the page to highlight a passage with my finger. If I were enrolled at Hogwarts, this would not be a problem. But I’m not, so it is.

The book that wins the prize for most highlights goes to A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.

In fact, I’ve spent so much time with this book that Hemingway became a character in my new book, which I’ll tell you all about once I’m done writing.

And now back to the manuscript.

I’ll leave you with a very satisfying quote by Hemingway back when he was just Ernest:

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

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Paris Letters is two bucks for the day

I woke this morning to two surprises. One, this lovely photo of Paris Letters by runwaychef over at Instagram. She’s a satisfying follow.

Two, Paris Letters is a Kindle Daily Deal today, which means it’s a mere $1.99 for the whole entire day. The link is to the USA Amazon, but you can get the ebook wherever you happen to shop for ebooks.

A word about the glory of the ebook.

A friend asked what I’ve been reading lately. He wanted some recommendations for summer. As you may or may not know, I’m writing another book about Paris (due tomorrow… EEK) so I’ve slunk away from the world.

Or maybe you didn’t notice at all. It’s cool. Sure. *sulks*

I told my friend the truth. I’ve been reading samples. The samples have come from Amazon. You can read the first few chapters of a book, then decide if you want to buy it. Some samples have been a joy, and I buy the book. Some are so-so, and I don’t. Recently, a sample that turned into a purchase was The Paris Effect by K.S.R. Burns.

Another book that turned from sample to purchase was The Paris Architect by Charles Belfoure.

I’ve also been reading highlights of past books. I so enjoy the highlight feature with an ebook. I highlight pleasant passages as I read, then later, when I’ve got a short attention span but still have the desire to read, I scroll through my treasured highlights. All the shine, none of the dull. The book that wins the prize for most highlights goes to A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.

In fact, I’ve spent so much time with this book that Hemingway became a character in my new book, which I’ll tell you all about tomorrow. But for today, let’s focus on Paris Letters… 2 buckaroonies today only.

And now back to the manuscript.

I’ll leave you with a very satisfying quote by Hemingway back when he was just Ernest:

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

Save

Florence, the grandpa angel, and a Travel Letter

April’s Travel Letter is about Florence, Italy.

I don’t want to bad mouth Florence. It’s not it’s fault. I, like a good Catholic, like to blame myself for the travel failure that was Florence. I was a tourist in the high heat of the day in the high season of June. And it was the tourists that ruined everything.

First, they (we) rolled our eyes in reverie as we choke down white beans and pretended they taste better in Tuscany than everywhere else.

Then they (we) climbed the Duomo, because they (we) can’t resist climbing every dome in Europe.

Florence is also a top pick for the youngin’s to study abroad, so it was a European city filled with American accents. UGH! I went to hear Italian accents, thanks.

There was so much of this…

That I was all this…

I’m the guy lying down, begging to be put out of my misery.

But then this came along and cheered me up…

Never have I just LEFT a city spontaneously, but I bolted, lest I spend my entire time squished and sweaty in long lines.

I know I made the right decision to leave early, because when I finally collapsed in my seat on the train, a man sat across from me who was the spitting image of my grandpa…

I snapped a photo when he wasn’t looking to compare with a photo of my grandpa…

You have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny. These magical travel moments make us feel like we are guided, that angels are among us. Maybe that guy on the train really was my grandpa who came back to keep me company on my journey. Who knows. This guy didn’t speak English, but neither did my grandpa. And he died when I was really young, so… *shoulder shrug*

It cheered me out of my sulk. Thanks grandpa!

Florence is popular for a reason. I owe it another try, but this time, I’ll return in the off season.

April’s Travel Letter is now in the shop.

April in Paris and the latest Paris Letter

This April’s Paris Letter was inspired by blooms, all things pastel, and by Pinterest, that cavernous time-wasting/inspiring site of beauty and wonder. I’ve been a Pinterest maniac lately…

By far my most re-pinned pin. People go gaga for the pretty pastel macaron.

Other gorgeous springy palettes I found on Pinterest.

And over at the Paris Photos shop, I added a few pink Parisian blooms.

And roses, too…

Around here, the bunnies are turning from white to brown. When I told Christophe about this phenomena of nature, he didn’t believe me. He had to see for himself that the bunnies really do turn colour. I tried to catch a photo for you but those bunnies are too fast for my camera. A skiddish bunch. Don’t they know rabbit stew is only popular in France?

 

Five years ago today I arrived in Paris

I didn’t even realize it until Facebook told me.

This was five years ago yesterday at the airport in Toronto:

Look at me. The sensible travel clothes, the beat up suitcase. The MEC backpack. So ready.

My sister dropped me off. She had a brave face but I could tell she was freaking out inside. I think it’s because I told her I brought with me a hundred Gravol pills. These are for motion sickness but they make you so very tired. They are Canada’s secret sleeping pill. I said if things got too bad, I’d just take the Gravol. She was not pleased with this comment. Nearly turned the car around.

When I landed in Paris, I hopped on the train to the Métro stop near the apartment I was renting. I remember feeling cold sweats the whole way, and being conscious that I probably smelled terrible. The lady renting me the apartment was there with the keys in hand, and after a brief tour, she left me to unpack. I didn’t.

Instead I picked up a tourist travel book on Paris, likely left there by another tourist who stayed there before me. I opened it and found where my apartment was located. Then noticed there was a market street nearby. That’s where I’d go. Find me a baguette.

This is the first picture I took in Paris:

Here is what is creepy cool about this photo. A few months later I moved in with Christophe, who lived in an apartment behind that boucherie with the red lettering. So basically my first photo of Paris was of my future apartment. And that white haired couple. I think that’s really the ghosts of Janice and Christophe future, visiting Paris later in life… or after life. Sensibly dressed. Still holding hands. Awwww.

I walked up the street RIGHT BY Christophe who worked at another butcher shop and plunked my travel-weary self down at a café.

He was standing right THERE roasting chickens like it was any other day of the week. Of course, I didn’t see him. I was sitting around the corner of the café. I incorrectly ordered a coffee and was corrected by the waiter. I opened my journal and began writing.

Another creepy cool fact. The waiter who served me my coffee is the same guy that gave us a glass of champagne on our wedding day when we sat down in the same spot a few years later.

But back to the first day… the caffeine propelled me up the street to gather fixin’s for dinner: Baguette, soup, wine, and cheese.

Just look at how pleased I am to have a baguette sticking out of the back of my grocery bag.

I returned home and made dinner. I was too tired to sit in a restaurant. Better to have my face fall in my dinner at home. I think I fell asleep at 8 pm. I was wide awake at 3 am and had received a text from Sharon and Alan (Akemi and Chapter 33 in Paris Letters) They had sent photos of themselves partaking in planking. They wanted one of me planking in return. That’s when I realized I couldn’t take a selfie of me planking. I felt very alone. I didn’t even have a friend to take a planking photo of me.

How weird it is to remember this moment.

I didn’t know anyone and I knew that it could be quite some time before I had friends, and on my travels, they were likely to be fleeting friendships, unlike with my planking compadres Sharon and Alan.

I drifted back to sleep with these concerning thoughts, woke, showered, dressed and walked over to that same café on rue Mouffetard.

That’s when I spotted the lovely Christophe.

Five years later. A husband, successful online business, and a New York Times bestseller under my belt. Pas mal, as they say in France. Not bad.

(The husband is the best part.)

So you want to write a book…

I spent half an hour on the floor today, grinding a tennis ball into my back.

So you know it’s book writing season.

Isabel Allende once said the hardest part of writing was the physical sitting. She’s right on, but it’s not the hardest for me.

For me, the hardest part of writing is getting beyond page 50.

Everyone who has the inkling to write a book, when they press themselves, they can write 50 pages of that book. Then something dreadful happens. You just don’t want to do it anymore. You print it out. Tell yourself you’ll edit while you wait for material to surface for page 51. You begin to edit, but then other more pressing events take place, like watching The Grand Budapest Hotel again, listening to Spanish language podcasts, or dusting.

Soon that manuscript is the only thing that is collecting dust.

And you ache for the WANT to keep working on it, but the want has disappeared. Then guilt appears and whispers all kinds of sour nothings in your ear.

That’s when you do one of two things:

Move on. It was a dumb idea anyway. No juice for it. Learning Spanish is a better use of your time.
Verbally abuse it. You heard me right.

 

Around the 50 page mark, the manuscript is starting to realize that you might actually want to do this. By halting your progress, it’s asking you if you really REALLY want to do this. If you are willing to live with it.

When you write a book IT NEVER LEAVES. Paris Letters will be with me forever through emails, posts, comments, Instagram photos, Pinterest, articles I write, articles written about me, book clubs, and even future books and bios will be written by “the author of Paris Letters.” I’m delighted, honoured, swelling with pride, and I’m so grateful to get to be the keeper of Paris Letters.

The most delightful photo of the book, from the beautiful, inspiring blog madefromscratch.

You’ve got to really want that book to be a book because then it’s yours.

Your manuscript isn’t being unkind. It’s giving you a slew of decent excuses to help pull out of the project with grace and dignity. No harm done. And ya, Spanish is a useful language to know.

But if you really want to write that book, read on…

You take that first 50 pages and you yell at it. You say, “THIS IS HAPPENING.” In all caps. It’s more effective. Enunciate.

This fun cup is from Holy Flaps over at Etsy.

(You swear more when you write books… you use up all the good words in the manuscript and are left with the second-tier vocabulary.)

Then you look at your manuscript again, but this time you point at it, too. “THIS IS HAPPENING.”

Then you call it on its ridiculousness. You say, “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to scare me out of this. I want this and you are going to help me make it happen, so bring back the enthusiasm, bring back the ideas, because THIS IS HAPPENING.”

Because you know the manuscript is sitting on gold.

Then you close the Spanish language lessons. That’s when the manuscript lifts a cheek and there it is… the ideas, the enthusiasm, the plan for this perfect opus that only you can write. You revisit page 49, reread what you wrote, continue to page 50, then set your hands on the keyboard ever so softly so you’re ready for when the next sentence comes.

And the next sentence will come. It will.

“I always worked until I had something done and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next. That way I could be sure of going on the next day.”

Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Since I’ve been partaking in the good winter work that is book writing, I wrote more about it in the Painted Letter  this month:

And because I watched and rewatched The Grand Budapest Hotel this month, this is the subject of the Travel Letter for this month:

I know without a doubt that Wes Anderson spent some time in the same scuzzy hotel that I did when in Budapest, because even though the hotel in the film is a mod-podge of different hotels, there is this one, very run down hotel, renovated in 1970… trying to be luxurious… and it’s just so weird.

Because you made it all the way down to the bottom of this post, here is some free Mendl’s stationery I created… another worthy diversion from book writing.

Now back to the Spanish language podcast. NO! Back to book writing. Book writing. That’s what I meant.

A haberdashery, buttons and a Paris Letter

Somewhere between Canada and Paris I lost a button on my coat. Somewhere between the airport and the apartment, I lost another. And between the apartment and the Métro, I lost yet another.

Travel is not easy on clothes.

Coco Chanel once said “Dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman.” A coat missing three of 18 buttons doth a shabby dresser make, so I off I went to the haberdashery to either replace three buttons of similar ilk, or 18 new wonderful buttons.

Haberdashery is the best word in the English language.

Truly, a mouthful of glee. Haberdashery. Five gorgeous syllables that when spoken feel more like a sentence than a word. A haberdashery is called “mercerie” in French, and is one of the few examples of an English word being better than a French word. At the haberdashery, you’ll find all the bits and bobs you’ll need to sew and mend clothing to invoke your inner Coco; from latches to buttons, ribbons to zippers, and all the needles and thread you’ll ever need. Most people head to the 18th arrondissement to take care of their DIY tailoring needs, but you’ll also find wonderful vintage buttons in dusty old antique shops. Look at what I found…

You know a shop like this is going to distract you for much longer than it should.

The packaging is so pretty I felt like buying these just to frame them. Now I wish I had. Drat.

I have NOTHING that would go with these buttons, but I considered buying the buttons, then finding the dress. Gorge.

More gorge. Mostly for the pretty pink and black colour combination. Boring buttons but great packaging.

I found six lovely buttons of the same style, but alas I required 18. That’s the problem with going the vintage route. These are likely all that’s left of this button. Zut alors.

Fabric remainders were also on hand to distract me from my goal. I wouldn’t even know what to do with these lovely squares of fabric, but I wanted them anyway.

And there were all these gorgeous labels. Vintage papers are my kryptonite. I found a lot of lovely bits and bobs, but not 18 of the same bob so off I went to the 18th arrondissment to duke it out with the other shabbily dressed Parisians.

At Mercerie Saint Pierre (6, rue Charles Nodier), they have an entire wall of buttons. All the buttons are neatly stacked in these little tubes. The trick is to find a button you like, then hope to God there is 18 more of said button in the tube. Then hope to God each button doesn’t cost a gazillion Euros… times 18 buttons.

In the end, I opted for a sensible set of silver buttons….

Then I bought a bunch of fun red ones that I couldn’t resist adhering to another coat that doesn’t even need new buttons.

These are the new red buttons that inspired the red in the latest Paris Letter, available when you subscribe over at the shop.

Even button shopping is fun in Paris.