K.E. Belledonne's Blog, page 2

Confessions of a Depressed Not-Gardener

It’s no secret that I’ve been having a rough few months — a rough year, even. (Well, you, dear reader, might think it’s a secret, because I’ve been so non-existent here on my blog. But, I promise you (and me) that that is going to change.)

I’d forgotten, living in Southern France for five years, how the winter here in the North Country really grinds me down. I’d forgotten what weeks upon weeks of 8 hours or less of weak and measly sunlight does to me. I’d forgotten how the prices of fresh vegetables skyrocket and how me, being the horrid cheapskate that I am, can’t bear to spend $4 on a tiny head of lettuce, or any money at all on tomatoes that don’t taste like anything but mushy nothingness. I’d forgotten what a steady diet of dim light, canned beans, joint-aching chill does to me.

I’ve had the winter blues since I was a child, and no one here, myself included, ever gave me a specific diagnosis. “Eat more oranges,” one doctor said. “Try not to be so sad,” a family member said. “Sit in front of a bright light,” another doctor said. I didn’t know it was possible *not* to feel this way — like every single act of moving, thinking, or doing was like walking through thigh-deep water, every movement of my body and thought of my brain dragging against me like so much sucking muck at the bottom of a lakebed. Snarling at people, out of nowhere. My memory shot to hell, unable to recall what happened on Thursday, unable to remember what I’d eaten for breakfast. Unable to finish a crossword puzzle, or read more than a few pages of a book at a time — me, a self-professed word nerd and crazed book enthusiast. Wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and not exist — not to die, never that; just not to have to go through the motions of living.

In France, I got a slight reprieve from this. I still had the blues, they just weren’t debilitating. I still had to fight my instincts to get myself outside to walk the dog, or go to the market. But I had the city waiting right outside my front door, no snowbanks to scale over, no bitter cold to contend with. I could be nearly anywhere I wanted by foot, by train or by bus, in thirty minutes or less. I was free.

Here, it’s a twenty-minute car ride to get anywhere. The road outside my house is a major trucking route and right at a speed limit change (from 40mph to 50mph) which means that impatient folks generally decide to use it as a passing zone — I’ve had at least three cars “miss” the pass and wind up in my front yard instead… so there’s no way in hell I’m going to walk, or bike here. There’s been no snow, so skiing or snowshoeing out my back door — not happened. My mobility has been severely limited.

A week or so ago, a family member and I had what I call a “Come To Jesus” talk. A frank, somewhat brutal discussion about how my mood, ability to follow-through on things, memory impairment and general malaise has been affecting not just me, but the rest of the people around me. I admitted how scared I was that my brain didn’t seem to belong to me anymore, that I couldn’t remember what we’d had for dinner the night before, that I couldn’t remember words, that the wrong words would come out of my mouth at the wrong time (I would intend to say “Please hand me that frying pan”, and instead would say “please hand me that toothbrush.”) It a very frank discussion, somewhat lacking in tact and affability, but chock full of concern, love and honesty. Something needed to change, and change soon.

In his way of loving me, he went out and bought me all the truly healthy groceries he could think of that might help me. Avocados and salmon, to boost brain power. Lavender oil, to help me relax and sleep. Leafy salad greens, high in iron and vitamin c and B. And a huge paper sack full of the first tomatoes of the season. Back in France, we’d eaten a tomato salad almost every night with dinner. Tomatoes there are in season from March through December. And they have a glorious taste and a glorious texture, and we’d eat them in our special green ceramic bowl, with fresh basil and olive oil from Provence and balsamic vinegar from just over the border and some mozzarella from the buffaloes two towns over.

My body went a little haywire, with the first bite of tomatoes. I don’t know if it was just the remembering of better times eating tomatoes, or if it could have been in response to the compounds in the tomatoes, but I was compelled to eat the whole bowl. I felt an easing in my chest, I felt a little bit lighter. I googled “tomatoes and depression” and found there are studies linking tomatoes with an easing of depression. (that’s an awkward sentence, dear reader. The studies linked -lack- of tomatoes in one’s diet, with depression.)

Several articles mentioned vitamin B deficiencies with mild-to-moderate depression, as well as vitamin D deficiencies. Since my doctor in France had prescribed vitamin D to me during the winter months, I knew that would probably help me again. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get an appointment with my doctor for several weeks (potential vitamin deficiencies are not high on the appointment-getting priority list) and not willing to categorize myself as such an emergency that I needed to be seen right away, I took my collective self into my own hands, and decided to try some vitamins on my own. (And yes. I have since made myself a doctor’s appointment to discuss these things…)

Dear reader, it is day four of my new vitamin regimen, and I can barely begin to believe the difference they’ve made. Every morning, my eyes pop open with the alarm, and I’m ready to get out of bed, rested and ready to go. My appetite is back, and craving all the right things (salad! tomatoes! bananas! yogurt! avocados! pineapple!). My brain is back under my control — my concentration level is rising, I’m no longer stumped for words. My memory is back (I had yogurt and granola for breakfast this morning. The yogurt was strawberry, low fat, expires on the 24th of April and is currently resting on the second shelf (on the left side) of my refrigerator. Friday night, we’re having pork souvlaki, for which I need to make the marinade this evening, and the ingredients are… (you see? Memory. Not a thing I need to worry about for the moment.) I actually couldn’t stop myself from whistling while I did the dishes yesterday morning. Laughter and jokes are bubbling from my lips. Loving kindness for myself and others.

I feel vibrant. I am vibrant. I feel (and see) colours. I feel energetic, and excited, and intelligent. This doesn’t feel like any previous pseudo-mania I’ve ever felt. This is not a high before the crash. This is stable. This is good. I’m resisting worrying about the other shoe dropping, about all this tumbling down around me. I’m going to keep feeling like this — I know I will. I have to. I will.

What does this have to do with gardening?

Gardening is not one of my things. It’s my husband’s thing. The garden breathes a sigh of relief when it sees him coming — he knows what to do for plants, how to make them thrive, what grows best next to which, and the plants seem to love him. When it sees me coming, the garden hunkers down with a gritting of its teeth –  ‘oh god, here we go again.’ I don’t have a green thumb – I have a black thumb. Plants wilt in my presence. At times, I’ve had the feeling they do it on purpose.

But this year, it’s going to be different. The garden and I, we are in it together. I need time outside in the sunshine (Vitamin D, baby. It’s the best.) and to do something. I may not know which plants need acidic soil, or what to do for roses, but I am a damned fine weeder. I can weed and weed, and rarely get sick of it. Sure, there’ll be a whole new crop of them next week, but for that afternoon in the sun, I’ve made measurable and distinct progress. I can identify the 97 different types of grasses that seem to sprout up around here in the blink of an eye. I can identify poison parsnip, and dandelion root, and lilac shoots and willow whips, and that strange flat cabbage looking weed that no one seems to be able to give me a name for other than “oh, yeah. That weed.” I have no fear of being dirty, or muddy, or of parking my butt in the damp mulch. I know better than to pull weeds with my mouth open (A second mouthful of dirt, and HA! Fooled me twice, but never again) and all I need are my gloves, my little rake and my foam pad to kneel on. Oh, and a hand spade. And my cowgirl hat.

So. I’m a not-gardener. But finally, a vibrant, feeling, laughing, not-gardener.

Right Here Waiting is on SIX Goodreads Best-of-2015 lists!

Goodreads and authors have a complicated relationship – I’m firmly of the belief that Goodreads is for readers to recommend books to other readers, not for authors to go in there and start going crazy doing promotional work and dominate the conversations. I, as a Goodreads Author, ran a giveaway when Right Here Waiting was released and I’ll do another when Daniel & Erik’s Super Fab Wedding Checklist is released in June. But other than doing my own reading and reviewing of books, I’m not really on there as an author.

However, I’m delighted and honored to find that Right Here Waiting has been added to several Best-Of lists for 2015, and I just wanted to acknowledge how wonderful that is.

Best M/M Historical Books of 2015
Best Underrated M/M Books of 2015
Best M/M Book Covers of 2015 (I’m particularly thrilled with this one, because my cover artist, Colleen Good, did such a painstaking and detailed job. I’m still dumbfounded that someone of her talent drew such a glorious cover for my book.)
Best Gay Romance in Times of War
Best Gay Historical Romance

Please, fellow reader, go take a look at these lists and cast your vote for whichever novel you think is worthy. For an author to see that people are reading their novel, and are moved by it, excited by it, and are taking the time to add it to one of these sorts of lists or voting for it — that’s such wonderful motivation and acknowledgement. Add it to a list, write a review, send a message. Most authors are like Tinkerbelle – we need applause to keep going. At the very most, you’ll be encouraging the authors of the books that moved you most to keep going, and write more! At the very least, you’ll see an entire list of books that have the potential to be your next favorite read!

If you’re a member of the Goodreads M/M Romance Group (and, really, it’s an excellent group to be a member of!), you’ll have a notification that the group is holding it’s Member’s Choice Awards for 2015. Nominations are open for over 40 categories through December 25th or until the category reaches 100 nominations, whichever comes first. Preliminary voting starts January 1st, for any category which has over 51 nominations – so go go go start nominating the best m/m books you’ve read! Right Here Waiting has already been nominated for Best Historical, but there are so many amazing categories in which to nominate!

You must be a member of the M/M Romance Group to nominate and vote. All info can be found here:

The Fifth Annual M/M Romance Group Member’s Choice Awards

Right Here Waiting is back on TWO of Amazon Best Sellers lists!

Currently ranking as#180,945 on the Literature & Fiction>Genre Fiction list, and #20, 376 in the Gay & Lesbian fiction best seller list!!!

Now, that might seem ludicrous to be happy that one’s book is #20,376 on any list, but when one considers how many possible entries on that list (over 2 million!), 20,376 seems quite a respectable number!

Right Here Waiting is available at Interlude Press, barnesandnoble.com,  and amazon.com (as well as the international Amazon sites!)

A 5-star Book Review — Small Wonders by Courtney Lux

Whimsical, and brutal, bitter and kind, jaded and earnest – Trip Morgan is a incredibly nuanced, multi-faceted character that claims your heart even as you want to shout at him in frustration. He doesn’t pull any punches. From the first moment he tells of his unconventional birth, you realize he’s got more going on inside his head than he lets on. He keeps a tight rein on his emotions, in the nonchalant cool and distant way of someone so determined to feel nothing, because if they feel anything at all, they will feel everything.

He carries his bag of small wonders, little items he’s gleaned from the streets, nothing of any value to anyone but himself. They represent almost the sum total of everything he has in the world, the few things that cannot and will not be taken from him, a sense of security in a plastic bag.

The scenes from Trip’s point of view are written in a lyrical poetic rhythm. The rest of book maintains a tone of the quiet desperation that can be just trying to survive in the city, unscored by the deep love, devotion and dedication of a group of friends who discover “family” doesn’t have to be the one into which one is born. Their stories, as they unfold, are both heartbreaking and heartwarming. The love story is quiet and tentative and entirely believable.

This is a book that will make you ache, but not leave you a pile of mush. You might feel a lump in your throat, you might get goosebumps, you might laugh out loud, but no inconsolable weeping. Courtney Lux’s mastery of capturing the emotional heart of the scene is present on every page. She leaves you in a most realistic happy ending I’ve read in a long time – happy endings aren’t always riding off in to the sunset.

My only complaint is that this book ended. I want more of my boy Trip. Granted, I love to re-read books, but I have re-read this one at least four times since it landed in my lap. I find myself simply missing Trip and I go re-visit him again and again.

I give this book my highest review notation – I’m in an incredible book cheapskate, but I would buy this book, in hardcover, at full price, and feel like I got an incredibly good deal. This is an ideal book for anyone looking for beautifully told, realistic love story that doesn’t shy away from either the lows or highs of life.

A new 4.5 star review for Right Here Waiting!!!

“…a perfectly paced character driven novel of true love and hope set in the time of war.”

I had no idea the folks over at Joyfully Jay had chosen my book to read during their Reading Challenge Month – and in the “push your genre boundaries” challenge week, to boot! I’m always happy to hear that my book has pleased someone who loves historical fiction, or WWII romance, but to hear that someone who doesn’t usually read this genre found it engaging and enjoyable is fantastic!

“Belledonne expertly lets their intimacy and love take center stage with well written emotional scenes that perfectly display their bond.”

Many, many thanks to Joyfully Jay and Michelle for taking a chance on my book! The rest of the review can be found here.

Right Here Waiting is available at Interlude Press, barnesandnoble.com, amazon.com (as well as the international Amazon sites), Smashwords (ebook only) — or ask about it at your local library!

hey, I’m back.

I’ve been out of sorts, out of bounds and out of whack for weeks now, and it’s time for me to dust myself off and get back in the saddle.

More updates on our trans-Atlantic move as events warrant. We’ve still got over a hundred boxes to unpack and sort through and a decided dearth of bookshelves. Someday, I know I’ll feel at home here, but that day is not today.

And just as I had been thinking I might have my feet back under me, they were swept away again when I got the news that a dear friend and colleague, Lex Huffman, had passed away quite suddenly.

Lex Huffman was the technical director at my publisher, Interlude Press. But he was so much more than that.

He was my friend, my confidant, my support and my banter partner. In the five years I knew him, I haven’t written anything of consequence that he hadn’t seen before the rest of the world. I dedicated my first book to him. He’s intertwined in at least three other books I’ve been working on, and I just am having a hard time finishing this next book without him to bounce ideas off of and brainstorm with. Knowing I’ll have to complete these without him, without hearing “You done good, kid” from him makes me ache.

So many times, I’ve opened up a new post here to try to make an official Author Blog post about him, some collection of words that encompass him, what he meant, and still means, to me. But I just wind up in a puddle of tears. It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words, but the loss of Lex has left me aching and bewildered.

I’d written a eulogy of sorts of him on a private blog, and I’m going to recopy that here:

Lex Huffman died peacefully at his home in Ohio. He was 52 years old.

Lex loved Sufjan Stevens. And oddly-waifish blond midwestern farmboys who may or may not be gay. And bearded men in flannel. And Broadway-show-tunes singing men. And construction-vehicle-driving men. And eyeliner-wearing fabulously-clad men. I once asked him about his “coming out” story, and he said he’d never had to come out to anyone. He said no one who ever met him ever thought he was straight.

Lex was an astronomer. He loved space and space exploration. He developed a website, staratlas.com, which reads your IP address, and shows you “What’s Up, Right Now” – which constellations might be visible from your current position, even during the day. (For example, right this minute, Taurus and Orion are directly over my head. I can’t see them because of the sunrise, but it’s comforting to know that they’re there.)

At times, he did secret computer-y work for the US Air Force. At times, he drove a dumptruck and an excavator. At times, he wrote stories. He was a renaissance-man, whose curiosity was boundless.

He would want me to tell this story: One time, he got a congratulatory message on some of his astronomy work (and I find, to my chagrin, that I do not remember which of his projects it was.) Just a short e-mail from an astrophysicist, saying he’d found Lex’s work very helpful. And it was signed “Dr. Bryan May.” Lex replied, thanking the man for his note, and, as it was Lex’s penchant to do, he quipped “I bet you get asked if you’re the guitarist from Qn all the time”, to which the man replied “actually, I am the guitarist from Queen.”

Lex would tell me that story any time Queen came up in our conversations, which was, not-so-surprisingly, quite often. And then we’d agree that “Fat Bottomed Girls” was a most excellent song, and that no one but Freddie Mercury could sing it without it being offensive (with all due respect and apologies to Glee and Mark) and then Lex would tell me Freddie Mercury facts that he had stored away in his mind. He’d bring up Freddie Mercury’s birthplace (Zanzibar), or his religion (Zoroastrianism). And then talk would turn to Adam Lambert (the only acceptable replacement lead singer fit Queen, though Paul Rodgers in early ’05 really wasn’t that bad, either.) And then, inevitably, that would lead to Cheyenne Jackson.

I always had the feeling Lex took unspoken delight in bringing up Cheyenne Jackson in our conversations, if only to laugh at my baffled horror. He would send me the link to any number of Cheyenne Jackson videos, usually with Cheyenne in denim booty shorts. And I would express my disbelief at how anyone could be attracted to that man, and Lex would say “You are clearly not a gay man” and I would say “Lex, I think I’m pretty sure we confirmed that a long time ago” and he’d laugh. It was always the same pattern.

Lex had a great chuckle. He had a great voice. It was deep, with a slightly-Southern Midwestern drawl. It was soothing and comforting. He spoke slowly, and with gravitas, even when making an off-colour joke. He didn’t speak often, but everything always seemed to pause when he did. You just wanted to listen to him. He was the calm spot in a frenzy of activity, a sure and fixed point in the whirlwind of creativity.

He was private, and laconic. He never wasted words, he never was overly descriptive or wordy. He didn’t express emotions very often, beyond mild annoyance or frustration at what he was working on. Sometimes, he’d be wistful about romance and finding a good man, but he’d always change the subject whenever one of us would launch into matchmaking plans. He wasn’t one for saying “I love you” to any of us, but he did go out of his way to show us he cared.

Lex loved being a hub of information – he loved knowing things about people, so he could connect them. He remembered where people were from, where they lived now, their families, their hobbies or professions outside of fandom. He knew people’s “secret identities”, lives or jobs or families they didn’t talk about on the internet, and he relished keeping those secret – though he was not above saying “I’m not saying who, but I know for fact that we know someone who can confirm {such and such detail}” or “Let me consult my sources.”

I lived in a timezone 6 hours ahead of him, but he had strange sleep patterns, and so we often talked in what was the middle of the night for him. I’d frequently wake up to a message from him

“Uh-oh, I think my computer might be spouting random media files. You might want to check your email to make sure it didn’t send you gay porn or something like that.”

And sometimes it was someone’s book cover. Or a particularly exquisite paragraph or two that had struck him from the book he was working on. Or a set of fonts he was trying out for a particular book – he was determined each IP book would have a type face that was perfect for each book’s content and feel.

And sometimes, it really was gay porn. Lex liked to keep me on my toes.

One week last summer, I had a really really awful week in my personal life. I was really very upset and I couldn’t stop crying, and, as always, Lex was talking me through it & offering support. He happened to be in possession of my book cover, which I hadn’t seen yet. And he told me I could choose just one little piece to see. He sent me just a slice of one of the small “photographs” from my book’s back cover, weeks in advance.

I knew I could ask him anything, and he’d help me. When my computer crashed and wouldn’t turn back on while I was doing final edits on my book, he calmly talked me through the steps for to retrieve any cached information, how it was possible to restore my hard drive, and how I could get a portable hard-drive to save everything on before it happened again. When I had a conflict with someone, he listen to me freak out and then would calmly suggest some things I could try to resolve it. When I had myself convinced that what I was writing was god-awful, he’d read it and give his opinion. When I had a (still-unwritten) space story I was sketching out that hinged on a plot detail I couldn’t figure out, he came back with 10 or 15 different ideas that would make it work. When I was upset, he’d talk me through.

If you’re sitting there reading this, and thinking “I wonder if Lex and I were friends?” I can assure you, that yes, yes, you were, and he loved you fiercely. He was so proud of us, so proud of our stories and our triumphs and our hearts. He loved those of us that wrote stories, those of us that drew stories, those of us that read and appreciated stories. He loved us. If he replied to your posts with an irreverrant quip, if he sent you a message because you were having a bad day, if he helped you restore your phone when it froze, if he told you a story – he loved you.

Years ago, I was in a group chat thing with Annie and Candy and Lex, and because we were all in different time zones, there would be a “sweet spot” where Candy would be just heading to bed while I was waking up, and Annie and Lex were insomniacs. Inevitably the three of us would get winding each other up, with innuendo and dick jokes, and like magic, Annie would appear online. It got to be a game for he and I, to see if we could start Annie’s morning with an “oh my god I haven’t had enough coffee for this.” He and I would often leave a good joke or innuendo hanging in the chat window, and continue chatting in a private window, just so she’d be sure to see it first thing. It tickled him to no end to know he was making people giggle.

Lex loved decorating for events. His piano teacher (from when he was a kid) still came over to his house for most every major holiday, and brought with her her friends from church and assorted men she would not-so-deftly try to set him up with (which often produced absolutely hysterical texts from Lex “The Piano Teacher brought over a good-looking nice Hungarian boy. Sadly, she has not figured out that he’s not gay, he’s just European.” or “The 77 year old antiques dealer is not “available”. He is “still alive””) The day before Easter and he’d send me a picture of his dining room table, all laid out with the good china and fancily-folded napkins with placemats and tablecloth in coordinating colors. At Christmas time, he’d send me photos from around his house, showing me his enormous Christmas tree collection. (He was trying to figure out how many glass or porcelain or plastic or fake christmas trees  he had. Honestly, the man had Christmas trees of all different sizes, in every single room of his house. “Here’s the hall bathroom.” In total, we counted over 41 “major” christmas trees, but we grouped the small ones, so I am unsure as to the final total count.)

It’s strange, because I still find myself having conversations with him in my head. I can almost “hear” what he’d reply to whatever I sent him. I’ve found myself having to stop myself from messaging him, several times a day – with my usual daily mini-crises, or something funny that he’d get a kick out of, or questions to ask him. I guess it’s a bit of a comfort for me that most of our interactions were via the computer. I always knew that he was a real person, living and breathing somewhere out there in the world. But, he was my delightful friend-in-the-computer, a devilishly funny supportive delightful friend who exists in my head first-and-foremost. I’m determined to keep him there, to keep his dry humor and his flair and his calm intelligence with me, to help keep me balanced.

Lex, my darling friend, I miss you so very much. I will keep writing happy endings for you. I am determined to keep the family you gathered together, to be a smaller hub in the connections you started. I promise, I won’t give up on these dreams. Just like Orion and Taurus, I know you’re out there somewhere, even when I can’t see you.

Some advice about Parisian flea markets

On a flying trip to Paris, probably my last before The Big Move, we went to the Porte de Vanves flea market. We were there on a mission: silver flatware and trivets. I hoped to find a few jewelry trinkets, or perhaps a pitcher or vase or two (or seven, who am I kidding. I have a thing for pitchers and vases…)

Flatware was pricey and I wasn’t as comfortable with reading the marks on it as I should have been. Oh yes, I do research before I go flea marketing, in the hopes I’ll be able to know whether or not I’m getting a good deal. Trivets were not to be found. Jewelry was plentiful, but none that was my particular milieu. Pitchers and vase purchasing were quickly vetoed once it was pointed out we had a long day walking around Paris ahead of us, and I would have to safely carry whatever I bought all day long. Sadly, I didn’t find anything I loved enough to justify carrying it on my already aching shoulders. Ah well. C’est la vie.

I did see the above taxidermied fox, which made me smile. Luckily for him, he was in far better shape than the poor weasel I saw a few weeks back. I asked the woman selling him what he might be used for — it looked to me like the iron circle he’s holding is a bit small for umbrellas. She said “oh, you could use him for that. Or for holding a dish of candy. Or perhaps a dish of nuts or something for a party. Or toilet paper.”

I still can’t decide what insight into the French collective mind one might deduce from these statements.

I’m a cheapo-depot flea-marketer. I don’t like spending more than $10 on anything at one, unless it’s really really really super-special. Portes de Vanves had plenty of things that I thought were reasonably priced, a large selection of professional sellers who specialized in one thing or another but also people who appeared to be just cleaning out Grandmère’s attic. (Further research informs me they are all professional sellers at Vanves. Some just have a narrower focus than others.)

Porte de Clingancourt gets more press because it’s immense. It’s truly a rabbit warren of tiny shops and sellers and the roads/paths twist and turn and split. It’s very easy to get completely turned and more than a bit lost. However, those stories you’ve heard about finding a vintage Chanel suit at Paris Flea Market — that’s at Porte de Clignancourt. (What those stories fail to mention is that it’s at a professional Chanel collector’s shop, and it’s still $3000. Oh yes, I went to that shop and I pressed my little face up against the window longingly. It’s a beautiful shop and it was lovely just to be in the presence of actual vintage Chanel suits.)

Porte de Clingancourt is like an antiques mall. If you’re looking for a taxidermied giraffe, or a crystal chandelier, or a silver service for 40 people, or antique Limoge ceramic figures — that’s the place to be. They’ve got gorgeous furniture, stunning antique jewelry, beautiful architectural pieces for your home — and an office to arrange shipping it all back to the US. Yes, there are smaller, more affordable shops and sellers as well, but if you’re looking for cheapo-depot flea market treasures, this just ain’t the place. It’s all been combed over and you’re just not going to find a hidden Chanel suit on a rack somewhere for $50.

Also, something I didn’t really see mentioned on any websites I looked at about Clingancourt — it’s *really* not in a good section of Paris. To get there from the Metro stop (Porte de Clignancourt) you have to run a veritable gauntlet of people trying to sell you knockoffs and items-of-questionable-provenance. “Gucci” belts, shirts, handbags, sunglasses, ties. I can’t say with certainty that they were stolen items, but one dude offering to sell you just one iPhone….ehhh, that’s suspicious to me. If one even pauses near one of these guys, you’ll be instantly swarmed by the other sellers who will try to get your business (oh the poor American couple walking ahead of us — they got nailed.) I can’t tell if the swarm really was about the business, or about the potential for an unguarded wallet, purse or cellphone…

Clingancourt is a cool market to go to, don’t get me wrong. It’s full of amazing things definitely worth seeing, and perhaps buying. Just be smart about it. Don’t wear a backpack, don’t leave your bag open, keep your wallet and your phone well-buried in your bag and hold onto that bag firmly. Do not bring an expensive camera, even if it’s hanging around your neck. Walk like you know what you’re doing and do not stop to look at the knockoffs. Once you’re actually in the market, it’s far less intimidating.

In my opinion, Porte de Vanves is the place to go. Easy to get to, a nice area of town though be smart about where you put your wallet. (info on how to get there: http://www.pucesdevanves.fr/venir-aux...) Plenty of great deals, plenty of amazing things.

Now I’m a bit sad I didn’t buy the stuffed weasel after all

I’m titling this photo “who *doesn’t* need a stuffed weasel?”

Or a candle sconce with reflective mirror, in case you’d like to pretend you are Versailles, or perhaps at Almac’s inveigling to put yourself in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s path…

Or a wire hat-making rack? Or a guitar?

Or a gracious gilt mirror back there on the table? Is that man in the reflection a) an apparition, b) an unwitting photo bomb-er, or c) a product of my incredible photoshopping skills? He’s either a or b. Or I suppose, D) a Frenchman thinking “why is this crazy woman taking photos of the weasel?”

Here’s another treasure I found: a handmade lock, with letters on the tumblers. I got really excited about it, my head teeming with visions of Robert Langdon and rosebud or whatever the word was that opened the lock in The DaVinci Code, and I began running through four letter word possibilities. Then I remembered: I’m in France. It was probably a French person who made the lock. It will probably be a French word that will open it. Merde.

The man selling it didn’t have the combination, but he did knock two euros off the price because I looked so crestfallen. Oh well. It will be a nice little truc to keep me busy on those cold New England winter nights, trying out every possible combination…

Here are the treasures I came home with: A bronze pitcher with a lid chained to it (that I haven’t quite figured out what it was used for, but it’s obviously handmade and I think it’s kind of cool. And the guy wanted 3 euros for it. SOLD!); a pottery vase with daisy (from the Alsace region of France) and the light blue pitcher that the lady threw in as a bonus, for 5 euros; an acorn lidded cup carved from a single piece of wood (for 50 cents); an ammonite fossil for 2 euros, a bracelet with the coat of arms of all the Gaelic nations (vintage, 2 euros), and my favorite purchase of the day, a tiny blue pitcher with multi-color dots, which was 6 euros and was my big splurge of the day, but I love it immensely and it brings me joy, so it was well-worth the splurge.

Not pictured: a stunning vintage structured handbag in black leather, a wrought iron trammel (to raise and lower pots in a fireplace) PLUS the hanger from which to hang the pots, and a huge beechwood ring mold for pressing Beaufort (our favorite kind of cheese). All important and necessary purchases, even if the trammel did turn my hands all sooty, and walking with it made me clanked so loudly I felt like Marley’s ghost. And, let me be clear, the cheese ring is big enough that, rather than carry it, my husband wore it home as a bandolier a la Chewbacca. (I spent the afternoon calling him Cheesebacca. He thought it was hilarious, in a really very not-so hilarious sort of way.)

#AmWriting – Book 2 Teaser!

Here’s what I’m currently staring at, and it’s just not getting any easier…

And yes. Yes, I am writing in a Haribo notebook. Isn’t everyone these days?

Right Here Waiting for sale on books.rakuten.co.jp!

Yes, I admit it. Every few days or so, I google my book title to see what’s out there, floating out there in internet ether. I’ve found some lovely unexpected reviews and such.

And I definitely would have missed seeing my book on a Japanese website called Rakuten. How cool is this?

I have a strange urge to print it out and pin it on my wall. Would it be weird to embroider it? On a pillow?