Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 57

Fresh August Air

I went walking again today, and while walking probably sounds like a total non-event to most people, for me it’s quite the celebration. Something to write home about, as they say.

I haven’t been able to walk much for the past three and a half years because my hips went wonky on me, both my gluteus Medius tendons fraying like weathered old ropes from decades of riding horses. I also developed bursitis, which if you’ve had, you will know how painful it is when it flares.

Heading out…

I couldn’t get any doctors to take my pain seriously for ages, which was very frustrating. No matter how much I told them that walking any distance was becoming more and more painful, they shrugged me off, telling me I should just move more, or prescribing a bit of physiotherapy coupled with anti-inflammatories. Anyway, eventually (long crazy story, best saved for another time!) a team of doctors halfway across the country figured out that a couple of cortisone infiltrations might make me more comfortable. I’ve felt a lot better ever since being injected, although I have to remember to pace myself, which has never been my forte. I’m also a fervent believer in the benefits of Pilates, which I do regularly. The main thing is that I can once again enjoy the countryside on Shanks pony (does anybody still recognise that expression or am I showing my wrinkles?).

Distance-wise, I can’t go mega far. I can manage about 6 kms, tops, beyond that I get too sore. But there’s a lovely 5,7 kms loop that starts from my house, does a gentle meander up the Jura foothills, and then wiggles softly back home again. Of course, if your gluteus Medius’ and other bits are ship-shape you could keep on meandering right to the top of the mountain, all the way to La Barillette, which would be wonderful. Personally, if I ever feel the inclination to go up there, I’m afraid I have to get the car out.

But no matter how you get there, the views from La Barillette are phenomenal, sweeping right across the plateau and the Lac Léman, and if I recall correctly you’ll also find nice little fondue restaurant where you can indulge in some serious sustenance.

Anyway, up my little loop I meandered in this weird August weather. To be honest, the cooler temperatures we’re experiencing are perfect for walking, although a little more summer sun wouldn’t be frowned upon, right?

Having only moved here recently, I’m not yet very familiar with the area surrounding my house, at least not as far as going for walks is concerned. But nature is spectacular, and I love how quiet it is compared to where we were before. Apart from the occasional roar of mad motorcyclists racing up the mountain on the main road, or speed fanatics in cars abusing their accelerators, it’s pretty tranquil in this part of the world.

I always feel a sense of pride at what my body has achieved when I reach the top of my circuit. I tend to even stop for a while, smiling at the view and talking to myself like a weirdo. Someone very lucky is building a house up there, and I bet that when they finally move in they’ll never go anywhere ever again, because they’ll be stuck on their terrace, or at their living room window, staring at the view and saying “wow” over and over!

Wow!!

On my back way down, I saw a beautiful fox strolling through a freshly cut wheat field and once again paused, watching him, even attempting to take a couple of photos with my phone. Then I stood quietly, taking in all the different colours and patterns merging into each other: the prickly golden stubs of cut wheat, the deep green of the elegant cornfield, the trees and the mountains and the crazy clouds in a schizophrenic sky.

Spot the fox!

If you look closely, you can just about see the fox in my photo, which makes me happy, but is nothing to write to David Attenborough about.

What else did I see? I saw a house fit for a princess, complete with a tower. I saw dozens of little wooden chalets, many festooned with colorful bunting featuring all the cantonal flags of Switzerland, presumably set up for the 1st of August, which is Swiss National day. Some of the more permanently patriotic residents had installed proper flagpoles flying big Swiss flags.

Fit for a Princess

Geese? Or are they ducks?

I walked and watched and listened. I saw people walking dogs, and cats walking themselves. I heard people raking leaves in gardens, I heard the snip-snip of secateurs, I heard a father ask his little boy to go and find another big bag in the garage so that they could get all the leaves and twigs and deadheaded flowers out of the way and make everything look nice and tidy before mama got home. I saw groups of cyclists with red faces and impressive calves, pedaling up up up, probably looking forward to the nice fondue and glass of white wine they’d order when they made it to the top.

I saw an elderly lady sitting on a bench all alone, looking a little sad as she stared out into the wide-open space that stretched out in front of her, and I wondered whether she might be thinking of someone she loved who is no longer be around. I saw people enjoying a picnic at a pretty little barbecue spot, and a little further on I saw an empty bottle of wine set on top of a roadside bin and wondered who’d enjoyed it. I saw three geese resting in the middle of the road by a higgledy-piggledy farm. I saw wildflowers, some mingling merrily in a festival of colours, some just plain party-poopers, happier alone. I saw a huge old oak tree with a bench underneath it and almost sat down for a little rest, but didn’t in case my hips thought they were finished with walking for the day and wouldn’t let me get back up again. I saw elderly horses swishing at flies in sun-dried fields, young cows bouncing around like unruly children. I saw a mother and daughter out on a run, and a family of five out on their bicycles, the children lined up like little ducks. I walked for just over an hour, enjoying my own company, dreaming up bits to feature in the book I’m writing, listening to the wind in the trees, and breathing in the gorgeous fresh medley of country smells.

Is this yours?

And then I came home and thought I’d write to you and tell you all about it!

 

Do you like to go for walks? How far can you go? What do you see in your area of the world?

 

Tell me! I’d love to know.

 My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie , is available on all Amazon sites.

From “Mucho Caliente!” to “Just Like a Movie”

And all the messy bits (aka life!) in between…

There are massive gaps in my writing career. Not because I periodically no longer enjoyed writing, but because things happened to me that caused me to stop. Trauma, both mental and physical, played a part in these interruptions, and depending on which variation of trauma I was dealing with, I channeled my creativity in other directions.

 I love making things. I love holding something that I’ve crafted from start to finish. I throw myself into new creative forays and become obsessed with whatever it is I’m currently involved in. My husband says I’m a little extreme. Fundamentally, I just think I’m interested in lots of different things, which is a blessing considering the number of times when circumstances have obliged me to reinvent myself.

 As a child, like most children, I drew and painted. Some of my paintings still exist, proudly exhibited in my parent’s house, and I even think that my uncle and aunt still have a pen and ink zebra I gifted them circa age 12, as well as an odd-looking clown (it’s amazing what good frames can do!!). Even I have a watercolour I painted in my mid-teens. It’s a naïf-style frozen lake ice-skating scene that I’m still rather proud of. It’s currently in my office, waiting for a decent frame. Come to think of it, it’s been waiting for a decent from for a long time.

 I loved to write. I wrote long letters to my grandmother, I wrote stories, and since I was born with horses and ponies on the brain, these often revolved around riding schools and wild ponies. I even wrote a couple of plays, one of which was produced in a town hall when I was about seven. I played the lead: a princess, of course. I kept a diary throughout my teenage years, detailed outpourings of anguish at not being cool enough, pretty enough, popular enough. Heartbroken tales of unrequited love, snippy accounts of feeling grossed out by poor boys who liked me but whom I had no interest in, chronicles of mini moments of acute happiness when a boy I’d fawned over for weeks finally smiled at me. I often wonder what happened to all those deep red, hardbound, A4 notebooks filled with raw emotion. I wish I still had them.

 Craft wise, I learnt to knit in primary school. My Italian grandmother taught me how to crochet. I dabbled in basic pottery, made collages with old magazines and photographs. I learnt to paint on silk, on velvet, on glass, on ceramics. My mother still has a full set of Christmas themed champagne glasses I painted back in the 90s. More recently, YouTube videos taught me how to sew. I’ve made more bags than fit in my cupboards!

 I started writing “seriously” in the mid-nineties, following a bad riding accident that could easily have been fatal. A friend of a friend had started a magazine for the local ex-pat community, and I offered to write a couple of articles. “Mrs Bean goes to Verbier”, recently uploaded onto my website, was one of them. It’s a personal favourite.

 But it was the very first one I wrote, a humorous piece about having once been a rock chick, that won me fan mail and encouraged me to write a novel. Eighteen months later, cheered on by a selection of girlfriends who read it chapter by chapter, night after night, and who invariably wanted to know what happened next, I had written and edited a romantic comedy called “Mucho Caliente!” that soon attracted the interest of a major literary agent in London who was certain the book was going to be a major success.

 For various, complicated reasons, this didn’t happen. I wrote another book, but the pressure of having to outdo myself after having written Mucho took me to a bad place. I struggled with anxiety, with self-doubt, and stopped writing altogether. Horses reappeared in my life, and I overcame my fear of riding. After a few quiet years on the writing front, my literary agent and I parted ways, and when e-publishers became popular, a friend of mine convinced me to submit my book to a company in Texas who also did print-on-demand. They immediately accepted it.

 “Mucho Caliente!” was published in 2008. It got some lovely reviews, made a handful of people giggle and smile. I’d been successful in what I’d set out to achieve, which was to see my book in print. But I lacked visibility. Social media wasn’t what it is now. Basically, my book soon sank without a trace. Occasionally, bubbles of laughter would float up from the depths of the Internet; someone somewhere had come across it and thoroughly enjoyed it. I even found a great review on Elle USA’s online edition!

 Which eventually got me thinking: maybe “Mucho Caliente!” deserved a second chance?

 Which is why, after years of mulling over what might have been if the stars had aligned properly from the onset, I asked my American publisher to give me my rights back. I intended to give the book a bit of a rewrite, possibly change the title, and republish it, quick as a flash.

 And then Covid hit. And then I got injured. And then I got injured again, far worse than the first time. Mentally, I hit rock bottom. Chronic pain is something I’ve had to learn to live with; there are things I loved doing that I can no longer do (for instance, no more riding or taking care of horses), and I need to pace myself when it comes to spending hours on the computer, or working on a crochet project, or sewing. I hardly read paperbacks anymore because holding a book up for long periods of time puts strain on my neck. Instead, I listen to audiobooks, which I’ve come to love. Dealing with recurring pain has required considerable mental, physical, even social adjustments, which at times I’ve found hard to accept.

 So, it’s only recently, in June 2023, almost twenty years after first appearing as “Mucho Caliente!”, that my book has finally been republished under the title “Just Like a Movie”. Featuring a gorgeous new cover designed by my daughter, this heartwarming story is finding its way towards new readers. I sparkle with pride every time someone tells me how they couldn’t put it down, how it made them laugh, how certain aspects of Gemma’s personality resonated with them. Of course, I especially love hearing that Emilio Caliente has become their favourite imaginary boyfriend!

 I’m writing another book. I’m filled with a mad mix of excitement and gratitude and fear of failure and impostor syndrome. I worry about the intense physical pain I experienced not so long ago coming back. But above all, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved.

 “Just Like a Movie” is a very funny book, engineered to make you happy. Set in Ibiza in summer 2000, it begins with recently divorced Gemma running away to Ibiza. She’s sitting on a plane waiting for takeoff when a handsome Spanish pop music superstar whom she’s admired for years sits down next to her. They exchange pleasantries during the flight, before accidentally walking off with each other’s duty-free bags. So, they have to meet again…

 And as I said to my girlfriends who read it chapter by chapter, night after night, all those years ago, I hope it makes you smile.

 My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie , is available on all Amazon sites.