Jacques the Postman .. Free Write

    Free write

Place: Terrace of the tea room Vandoeuvres, Switzerland

Participants: Husband Rick, Sherlock our pup, me

Prompt: A chubby postman on a scooter. loaded with packages and letters and a La Poste logo

Timing: Ten minutes

Jacques jumped off his La Poste scooter and grabbed the envelopes for number 49.

Mavis had another letter from UBS, the fourth this month. Definitely not a statement. He wondered is she were in trouble-financial trouble. 

For the last six months she was at home everyday. No longer did he see her leaving for work dressed in business suits with a colorful scarf around her neck. 

Whenever he saw her now, she wore a jogging suit.

Paul had a postcard of the Roman collosseum from someone named Susanna. She'd written, "I want to make you sorry you didn't come with me."

Richard only had bills from credit card companies.

Nothing for Florence. At least she didn't open her door and ask him if there was anything from her daughter. He always felt sad when he had to answer, "Nothing." He didn't add, although he wanted to, "The little bitch."

Maybe she called her mother or sent emails, but he doubted it.

Today there were extra packages. He was glad he had the scooter rather then have to lug them from La Poste to the recipient.

Note: Today as we wrote three classes of school children walked by. The first, maybe about 11 all carried masks of elephants, tigers, lions and more. The second class, a bit younger wore sparkly headbands and grass skirts. The youngest class wore nothing, but held hands. One straggler was rounded up by the teacher. Tomorrow, I will post another "interview" with a character from Day Care Moms.

National Geographic

 

 "National Geographic is laying people off," My husband said. We are still in bed and like most mornings we read before we start the day often sharing bits and pieces of what we're reading.

Circulation is down from 12 million to 1.8 million. It has/had 40 local language editions and a digital version. It has been owned by Disney since 2019.

"How will little boys look at pictures of naked women?" he asks.

I remember as a child looking at it monthly, but not for naked women. I found the photos of places that were as different from New England childhood experience as if they were photographed in another universe. I suspected there was a world outside of my existence that was waiting to be explored or at least thought about.

Stacks of National Geographics were in the bedroom that we used as a store room. They went back to forever in my childish mind. We didn't save other magazines such as Look, Life, Colliers, etc. which that were part of our household reading.

I've read that the Newton Public Library has 132 years of back issues. I don't know if it is digitalized or in paper. The magazine was founded in 1888 as a scholarly journal and only started publishing photographs in 1905.

Admitted, I haven't read or bought the magazine for years. I remember coming down from the chalet in a tiny Alpine village where I'd spent the weekend and stopping at a restaurant. Its attached store sold copies of the magazine along with Reader's Digest and National Enquirer among the French magazines. I didn't buy a copy.

Memories of being curled up on the couch and reading copy after copy on a rainy Saturday. "Make sure you put them away when you're done," my grandmother would say.

I think of a favorite cousin who worked as a photographer, going all over the world to capture places most of us would never see. Will there be less work for people like him? What about the writers? Can AI produce the stories?

It's a strange world we are living in. All the world's knowledge seems available on a phone that seems to be another appendage on most people's body. 

I suppose one can curl up on a couch on a rainy Saturday and thumb thru their telephone. It won't be the same.

Gray shopping for a shopping phobic

I make no apology that I'm shopping phobic. I remember the Saturday, a precious day, I was looking for boots. I went to a number of stores and could not find my size at a price that did not involve offering my daughter for sale to pay for them. I went home and cried because of the wasted day.

My husband does most of our shopping, bless him. Often I will sit in the car and read rather than have to walk thru a store or worse a mall.

I did have one pleasant experience with Ikea in the early 90s. Within an hour or maybe a little more, I was able to walk thru the store and buy EVERYTHING I needed. I lived with and liked my purchases for the next 11 years.

Also a trip to Ikea for new duvet covers produced colorful linens that I enjoy looking at even 3 years later.

Thus when my husband proposed going to Ikea for the microwave we needed, I said yes.

And I'll admit, it is always a pleasure being with him and our lunch was delicious. Because it was Monday, the store was relatively uncrowded. All good.

What I did notice was that what I remembered as being colorful had been replaced by gray with some white and black. Aisle after aisle after aisle after aisle of gray. Dull. Boring. Depressing. Even the linens no longer made my eyes. They were bland.

Our new microwave is now set up, waiting for popcorn and other food to heat. It wasn't a wasted couple of hours. We will need to buy a new duvet cover and pillow set for my daughter's visit at Christmas, but it means finding a place that has colorful ones.

Maybe I can find them online so I don't have to go into a store at all.

vegetarian

 

I've toyed with being a vegetarian all my life. The first time I had two roommates and my daughter and as we sat down to eat a not-so-good vegetarian meal, she piped up in her four-year-old voice, "I liked our Burger King at lunch better." Meat appeared on our table from then on.

When I lived alone, I only bought meat when I was having dinner company. I ordered fish in restaurants. If I were at a dinner party, I ate whatever meat was served. After all, I couldn't bring the animal who donated my portion of his body back to life.

Now married to a devoted, fish-hating, vegetable-tolerant, lentil-allergic man, meat has become more a part of my daily life.

I never bite into a piece of pork that I don't think of pigs crowded into a barn and the stuffed on a truck like those people on the way to concentration camp in WWII, chickens hanging upside down waiting to be beheaded, or cows knowing something was up as they are herded toward the slaughterer.

At the same time, the smell of bacon frying, a good piece of lamb or Rick's BBQed ribs sends me salivated more than Pavlov's dogs.

At the same time, I adore fruits and vegetables. Lentils, chick peas, grains can make my mouth water. Tofu? Not so much, but I ate tons of it hidden in many ways going thru menopause. It stopped my hot flashes. 

Would I be a vegetarian if I lived alone. Probably at home I would be and revert to my earlier habits of only meat when served at a dinner given by friends. 

I would enjoy it, but still feel badly about the animal.

Incredible women

 

I love book/calendars such as those that give a different word's etymology or a historical fact for each day of the year.

I also have seethed when I read about women throughout history who have gone above and beyond their limits to achieve what might be impossible yet the credit goes to a man.

I decided to find at least one woman for each day of the year that was remarkable in some way. They could be remarkable in chemistry, physics, astronomy, astrology engineering, literature, painting, civil rights, women's rights which are civil rights, social work, education ... you get the idea.

I also thought of women who did things that were wonderful for their societies but not ours such as communist revolutionaries. 

Or women who were spies, jumped out of airplanes into war zones.

What about women criminals? Witches? What about women who fought for things like temperance.

For the past year I've been immersed in ferreting out these women. At first I wanted one for each day, but on some days there were 2, 3, 10. 

My second requirement is that the woman is no longer living.

My third is that she may not be well known outside her sphere of reference and perhaps not known at all. Someone from Ecuador or Ghana may be unknown in the rest of the world but should be. The same writer who helped start a movement may be forgotten by the majority of people living today.

I decided for each day one woman wasn't enough. I decided to do a write up for three with mentions of others.

I had help from Isabel in Canada, my former housemate, my husband, fellow writers who knew of the project. Names would be sent me sometimes daily sometimes sporadically.

My notes for the project is now over 400 pages. It contains dates, accomplishments, barriers. I have jotted down the opening line for the write ups in some. 

I've spent the last two months, going month by month on lists of potential candidates. Today I start on December. After I finish, I will start the write ups.

I can hardly wait.

Titan and OceanGate

 

Don't get me wrong. Death usually represents loss. Loss for the person that died, loss for those that loved that person. Even when a person, who has died had been suffering, the fact that the person shouldn't have suffered at all is sad.

During the search for the sub from the company OceanGate, I wondered about the choice of name. Gate attached to a name, usually has a negative connotation since Watergate. Maybe the name of the company was an unheeded premonition of disaster.

More importantly the safety concern voiced prior to the dive were probably a better premonition.

Immediately prior to the Titan disaster the news covered another disaster with a ship, overloaded with refugees fleeing from unlivable lives received a little news coverage but it did not create an international effort to save the people on board. The numbers of passengers were never known exactly, but over 700 was stated more than once.

Only five people were on the Titan. 700 versus 5 hmmmmm. But the five were wealthy men. They invested enough money to feed those 700 people had they reached shore safely.

I do not begrudge people who have money their pleasures. Well maybe a little, especially at the expense of others. Why should Bezos have 25 bathrooms in one of his many mansions when his employees lack health insurance? But that's another blog in the future.

I understand the lure of adventure, of discovery, and the love of creation of a technology that pushes the limits. I understand life in the world is marked by inequality. 

I will never like it and I feel sadder about that than the loss of those on the sub.

Free write--the three J's

 

"It will be 12 minutes before the pain au chocolat will be ready," the young girl behind the boulangerie counter told me.

My husband and I were at the boulangerie in our tiny village for our weekly free write where we find some one or someones to write about for ten minutes.

Today's "victims" were three workmen at the counter paying for their coffee.

The Three J's

They called themselves the Three J's: Jared, Jeremy and Joël. Susan, the boss's secretary had dubbed them that.

They were all in the mid-twenties. painters for RV House Renovations.

Two still had full heads of hair. Joël had shaved his head to hide his receding hairline. "I'm going to control my baldness," he would say even when someone didn't ask.

Every morning before starting work they stopped at the boulangerie for coffee. Their paint-splattered jeans and shoes contrasted with the wealthier customers clothes. It didn't bother them. They earned enough.

Joël was the only one married with his first baby, a son, on the way. His wife worked as a secretary for the oncology department at the local hospital. He hated it when she told him of a patient she had befriended didn't make it.

Jeremy had a girlfriend who wanted to take their relationship to the next level. Bit by bit more of her things ended up in his appointment. He wasn't sure what to do about it.

Jared had a rule: only three dates with a woman. He said when he was 39, he would think about settling down.

He was saving to go to Australia. He wanted to see the coral reef before it died.

They never talked about women. Most of their conversations were about whatever sports were in season. 

Before Joël hurt his knee, the three would meet to play football on Saturdays.

They ordered three more coffees to go before leaving for their day's work.

 Like all free writes we do, we have no idea what we are going to put in our notebooks, before we do it. We don't edit. The idea is to let the words flow. Editing, if we want to do something more with the piece, comes later. The point is to exercise our creativity as seriously as a jogger would warm up his/her muscles before starting the run.

The door to the kitchen opened releasing the wonderful smell from the baking pain au chocolate. The waitress gave me a baby pain au chocolate as an apology for my having to wait. 

Motivation is always greater on my free write days. 

 

Anne-Marie De Ruvo is Brenda's first interview for the book she is writing about four single moms supporting each other. I originally created the interview to help me define my characters but then added the interviewer as a major character along with the interview. Day Care Moms can be bought thru on-line bookstores in e-book format or paperback. I'll introduce the other three moms over the next week or so.

Anne-Marie de Ruvo

Anne-Marie De Ruvo will be my first interviewee for the book that I’m writing for a woman I think is named Irena Lazlo. I’ve searched the Internet for info from what Barbara told me and found Lazlo has supported women’s causes since her divorce and big, big settlement. I agree with her causes. I could be wrong, but I’m a pretty good researcher and she’s been quoted in many articles on how important it is for women to support each other in big and little things. I wonder why she wants to stay anonymous. I guess at $50,000 she can.

When I call Anne-Marie, she is hesitant to meet. “I am worried about custody of my twins,” she says.

I suggest changing her name in the manuscript. Maybe I’ll change all their names and even the location. It’s too early in the project to make those decisions.

“I am not sure that will work. My future ex knows the other women. He will know it is me.” Her French accent is very light and very sexy. In our entire conversation she never uses a contraction.

We go back and forth. I can’t imagine the book will have a large readership. I tell her that. She agrees.

We meet at her office at Brandeis University in Waltham. It’s a pretty campus. Seeing all the students makes me feel a lot older than my 50 years. Was I ever that young? Was I ever married? Did I ever work as a waitress to support my writing? Yup. Still, all those experiences feel like lives belonging to someone else.

Anne-Marie is attractive. Her dark hair is cut into a Dutch Boy. I think of the French singer Mireille Mathieu. She wears slacks and a sweater and doesn’t have an extra ounce of fat. Around her neck she has tied a scarf in a way I couldn't figure out. So French. Part of me hopes she has some cellulite.

Her office is tiny, barely room for the desk and two chairs. A bookcase takes up one wall. There are no windows. One word to describe it? Claustrophobic, but it doesn’t seem to bother Anne-Marie.

She offers me an espresso made from a machine tucked between books on the third shelf. I accept so I can watch her. I hope the act of making me a cup will relax her.

I take out my recorder and put it on her desk.

“I do not know,” she says.

“It’s to help me get your story right.”

She nods and I press the record button.

Me: Anne-Marie, you moved from France to Massachusetts. Why?

AMdR: My husband is the CEO of his company. He… they wanted an American presence. He set up a Boston office. He went to Harvard Business School for an MBA and loved the area. Boston is lovely, n’est pas?

Me: I love it, too. Was the transition hard for you?

AMdR: Not really. My father was a French diplomat. We had several overseas postings in Japan, Australia, Belgium and South Africa. Going into a new culture was not that difficult. I found a job teaching French literature at Brandeis. It is my passion. (She lowers her eyes). I am even am on a tenure track.

Me: You have two children?

AMdR: Twin girls, almost four. My husband thought I should be a femme de foyer, a stay-at-home mom, after they were born. I worked too hard to get my diploma at the Sorbonne to do that. I have, a what do you say, a vocation.

Me: Congratulations on the tenure track. I’ve heard they’re hard to get.

AMdR: They are. I need to do research and publish, and that is part of the work I adore as well as working with the kids. But there is something else. I hate being dependent. The idea of asking Jean-Marc for money to buy him a present is just, how do you say, degrading. It was almost impossible for him to see that it was not just working I wanted. You do understand?

Me: Yet you asked your husband for a divorce.

AMdR: I did. Jean-Marc was a good husband in that he provided for us well. We had a McMansion in Reading. He never was nasty. It was just... just... It was like I was part of the furniture. My wants, my needs, my loves didn't matter. Maybe because he is part of the aristocracy, although he is the second son. Lucas, his older brother, will inherit everything.

Me: But that isn't the reason to ask...

AMdR: For a divorce? No. I'm not very proud of it, but I fell in love with an Irish prof. We talk about everything that Jean-Marc has no interest in. There is a problem, though.

Me: And that is?

AMdR: He is married. It was over a year ago, he asked me to marry him. We would break up with our spouses. I asked for a divorce the same day, but Jean-Marc wanted to work things out and I did try. When we separated, Jean-Marc moved back to Paris and put someone else in charge in the Boston office. However, Liam still hasn't spoken to Allison. She is his wife.

Me: (I nod.)

AMdR: I am also afraid if Jean-Marc finds out I'm having an affair with a married man, he will want custody of the girls. I know the French are supposed to understand these things, but he is very possessive. He is always pressuring me to return to Paris. He hates the idea of being the first male to divorce in his family ever. He complains that the girls are not getting enough French, even though I only speak to them in French when we are alone. In a group it has to be English.

Me: Are you worried that Liam won't leave his wife?

AMdR: (Plays with the left end of her scarf). Sometimes. (She glances at her watch.) I would love to talk more, but I will be late picking up the twins. (She kisses me on each cheek, puts on her coat and holds the door as I leave.)

I'm an Amazon Woman

I'm an Amazon woman. Looking at me it would be hard to believe because I'm short and not over weight. I'm also pushing 81 and cannot shoot a bow and arrow as the original Amazon women warriors did. 

The reason?

I had my right breast loped off after it hosted a cancer that wanted to kill me. I wrote about it in a blog, https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/1226032995833212099 and a book The Cockeyed Nipple which was written for Anglo women in Geneva who were going through breast cancer and didn't speak French. Cancer is scary enough in a mother tongue never mind a language one doesn't speak.

When I saw the wooden Amazon woman made of branches, I had to use it for my Facebook photo.

This year my husband was playing with AI and came up with a drawing of me. He prompted it with white short hair, glasses, sitting on a bed, laptop and butterflies. He wanted the butterflies on the computer because I decorated my laptop with butterflies so it wouldn't be boring black. A cheery laptop helps motivate me in writing.

I retired the Amazon woman from my Facebook page. My husband's version is more relevant. After all, I just got a seven-year bill of health at my last cancer checkup. 

However my right breast is still missing and I still am garbage with a bow and arrow and that is okay. Each day has been a gift.

Long intermittent friendships

She and I started talking after we both left our carrels at the college library. 

Our class schedule was almost identical and soon we were studying together, especially when it came to tests.

We loved our literature courses and suffered over the Early English drama course when we read some dozen Greek and Roman plays as "scanty background material" leading up to EVERYTHING written up to Elizabeth 1. Not that we disliked the reading material, with our other courses it was hard to complete it all.

College was my sanity saver. My ex did not like or want me to go to school but conceded as long as I worked and did not slack on my wifely chores, I could. Thus working in a dry cleaner ate up study time but I still managed top grades.

I adored my studies and sharing ideas and discoveries with my new friend was one of the few joys in an otherwise over-crowded day. She too needed to work so we understood the pressures without going into too much detail.

I would not have survived an advanced French course without her. She was bilingual. Each new class, she had to teach the prof how to pronounce her French name

Her lecture notes that I needed to translate word for word, gave me what I needed including a deep appreciation of the plays with the exception of "Waiting for Godot," which I've seen in English too many times. Don't ask why I keep going.

When she was to marry a classmate, she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. Although the dress was bought, I had to back out at the last minute. My marriage was on the brink of failing and not going was the price of counseling, which did not work. I still feel badly that I missed it.

After college we kinda lost contact although we did meet up with our new babies, both daughters, born close together. 

For our couples to meet together was not successful. My ex did not like them and only later did I understand that some males deliberately cut their wives off from their friends.

Our lives evolved. She was a successful and happy teacher. Her husband did well in business including a sojourn abroad. I didn't teach but went corporate but always kept a writing component in whatever work I did until I escaped to my life-long dream of living in Europe.

Only in the last decade did we reconnect, thanks to the internet. My new husband, who encouraged me to maintain friendships and is liked by her husband, and I visited them in the Cape Cod home, enjoyed a meal of lobster. The time together was if we were still in school, only then we would never have been able to afford lobster. 

They came to stay with us in Argeles.

Until Covid, they alternated years in France by themselves and leading a group. Twice we joined them on tour for a couple of days. 

Covid stopped this routine.

This year they returned to France for the first time since the pandemic. We tried to align our time but our schedules didn't work. As the French say, dommage, too bad.

Still I feel blessed, even though we won't be able to sit down this time over  a good French meal and lots of conversation, she and I e-mail frequently, sharing news, sharing opinions on books and politics and other topics. 

I think back to those hours and hours spent in the carrels and the exchanges we had after in the caf. The hours checking on a writer, trying to get the most meaning out of a poem or a symbol in a novel. 

Friendship sometimes are based on sharing important parts of life even though they may be sporadic, they are no less important for the quality of life.

Fountains were too costly

During the Middle Ages when people living in Geneva wanted water, they had to walk down to the lake and then carry it back up the hill. The hill is steep.

They must have been very careful on how they used water.

It was decided to hire a man from the south of France to install a water system that would include several fountains.

When the first fountain was completed, he submitted his bill, but the town fathers considered it, much too expensive and the rest of the fountains were cancelled.

For the residents, walking to the one fountain in Place du Bourg de Four was still an improvement of lugging water up the hill.

I do not know if the smaller fountain is the original. I do know the fountain behind it is more modern.

Today the Place du Bourg de Four is the center of the Vieille Ville, the old town. Instead of modestly dressed men and women of Jean Calvin's time, people were walking in shorts, halter tops, short sleeves. Cafés spread out onto the Place and waiters and waitresses serve food and a variety of drinks, including water either tap or bottled. 

Water is still an issue today. Many places are facing drought and there are  restrictions on lawn watering, swimming pools and unnecessary usage. Other areas are being inundated with rain leading to floods.

Clean water is an issue not just in under developed countries but places one would expect it to be normal and not just in Flint, Michigan where clean water was considered less important than saving money.

We can do without green golf courses and swimming pools. We can't do without water to cook, clean and wash. When I run my shower or rinse a dish, I'm reminded that I'm lucky enough to do it without a long walk down the hill.

Multi Lives

Who pulled the curtains over the patio doors to the right of the bed, I wonder. Then I realize, I'm not in my French home anymore but my Swiss.

It takes a couple of days to adjust to the changes either way even though we live in villages in both places.

In France we live on a street with all the houses touching. They go back 300, 400 years. The village was fought over between the Spanish, Catalans, French and Majorcans and Germans over the centuries.

A Roman villa https://www.vidinoti.com/de/vandoeuvres/ was discovered a few years back and excavated in our Swiss village. In between then and now, farmers dominated. They still do, but they have new neighbors, almost half from anywhere in the world, many of whom work in international companies. 

People ask which place I prefer. I don't have a preference overall.

There are little things like the toilet a few steps from my bed in Switzerland that I appreciate. In France, I need to walk through the living room, dining room and kitchen. In summer the cool tiles on my feet in France feel good...not so much on a cold winter night. 

Switzerland is a studio, cleverly divided by a bookcase that makes it seem as a one bedroom. It is the only place, I've ever lived  where there are more than enough bookcases without additional construction or purchase.

Today is Saturday. We are going into Geneva by bus to a book store and food fair. When we return the village fete should just be getting started. We looked at many other alternatives including a medieval exhibition and an observatory open house on what to do. There are many more choices for every day.

If I were in France, we'd go to the marché which takes over the entire village center. Stands would sell everything from watches, clothing, veggies, meats, cheeses, honey... We would see friends and neighbors as we settled in our favorite café. A jazz band usually plays for donations.

The marché in our Swiss village. It has three stands: a butcher, a cheese seller and a local farmer with more local veggies than I know what to do with. If we asked, he would deliver a selection to our house on Monday.

It is almost impossible to leave our French house without running into neighbors and friends as well as those from all over Europe who have second homes. 

In Switzerland it is necessary to drive to meet people we know. This is good for my writing because there are less diversions, no matter how pleasant those diversions are. I would change neither.

 

The view in our Swiss village as we drive down the hill to our place is beyond the cliché of breath taking. There are no words to describe the Alps and their variety of colors. They dress in the entire rainbow over a period of time sometimes as short as hours. Sometimes they almost disappear.

The Med is a 10 minute drive in France. It can be anything from smooth enough to walk on to violent waves.

 

Lake Léman has its moods too. It has been known to throw water inland to create a ice city. We used to live closer to the lake, a two-minute walk. Now our drive is about 12 minutes.

Our French refrigerator is normal size. The one in Switzerland is half sized. I love its tininess, maybe because it reminds me of the one I had when I lived in Stuttgart as an Army bride. When I joined my ex, our first refrigerator was the window sill. When we moved and had the tiny refrigerator it represented luxury. It could be the memory relived that makes me like it. Also, we can't keep ice cream, an advantage to my waistline.

The shower in our Swiss home is almost a small room. The toilet is separate from the sink and shower area, which can be convenient as anyone who has had lived with two people and one toilet can imagine.

Whenever we change homes, the first 48 hours are marked by the phrase "Where is...?" as we try to remember where we put any number of household things. We now have a jar and each time we ask we put a franc/Euro. It will be used for our trip to Pompeii, assuming no other volcano.

No one is going to feel sorry for us. We live in two exceptionally beautiful places, each in their own ways.The culture varies, but in both we are internationals taking bits of this or that from where we are. We are integrated but not depending on what it is. Even if we returned to our childhood homes, our lives since we left have changed us so we would be partial outsiders.

This is not a complaint but a statement of fact, a statement that makes me know how lucky I am to have these multi-lives.

Day Care Moms

 The book is available as an e-book on most e-bookstores. I'll introduce the other characters over the next week. Check out my website at www.dlnelsonwriter.com

Brenda Ainsworth

“Didn’t I tell you I need a break?”

“You did, but this assignment is too well paying, never mind that it will be fun. And never mind my commission will pay my mortgage this month and part of next,” Barbara Milton, my agent, says.

I laugh. We’ve worked together for decades. I know how she tries to sell me on assignments for different writing projects, especially those that don’t excite me.

Some have driven me half-crazy where if I ever see the people again with whom I worked, I would cross the street to avoid them. Yet, I’ve made friends with others I worked with. Luck of the draw, so to speak.

She found a publisher for my first novel, which sold a whopping 5,000 copies. My next novel sold fewer.

After that she concentrated on getting me non-fiction and ghost-writing assignments benefiting our pocketbooks and saving me from getting a nine-to-five corporate job. Everyone knows when you work in a corporate PR department it’s at least seven to seven or more.

I’d just finished ghosting a book for a prominent scum-bag politician. It paid in the six figures, the highest I’d ever made. His contract was two million. Because he’s such a scumbag, the book died, which pleased me. Also, new scandals from D.C. made his topic out-of-date.

Talk about win-win. I didn’t have to feel guilty that I put such drivel in the public domain and my bank account was smiling.

Because of that large payment, for the first time in ten years, I could ease up a bit. I’m imagining myself in the south of France for the next six months, pretending I’m part of the Hemingway-Fitzgerald crowd. Sure, I know they’re all dead, but there must be writers hanging around the Côte d’Azur somewhere.

“How much?”

I imagine Barbara at her desk in her home office, a cup of cold tea on her left and her desk buried under manuscripts. She, too, gave up corporate to work for herself. Whenever I go to New York, which is as little as possible, I stay with her. I’m a Boston girl through and through despite my love for France.

It was five years ago that I developed a hankering to live and write in France. I’d done an exchange in France my junior year at Boston University eons ago. I tell people I’ve a bit of French DNA that makes me long for baguettes, good wine and people-watching in cafés. The question was how could I pull that off?

“$50,000?” $50,000 on top of what I just earned will buy me time in France. My mind boggles. After years of watching every penny, I suddenly have economic freedom, at least temporarily.

I look out my window. I’d bought a handyman’s nightmare 15 years ago. I love the street called Wigglesworth, named after a doctor at Harvard Medical and located across the street from the school. I turned it into three flats. The rental money from two is paying off my mortgage. Now I can rent out my flat too. Hmmm. “Describe the project again and in more detail. Don’t chortle, I haven’t said yes.”

“It’s a project funded by a woman who caught her multi-millionaire husband cheating. Wants to show that women can do lots by themselves and even more if they band together. A they-don’t-need-men-when-they-have-each-other kinda book.”

Hmmm. “Gay or straight?” I don’t care one way or the other. I think of the line, some of my best friends are black: some of my best friends are gay. Some of my best lovers were straight. But it could make a difference in how I’ll write it.

“Straight as far as I know. She became friends with a Boston-area lawyer who’s adopted granddaughter is in daycare. The mother is also a lawyer. She has three friends with their kids in the same daycare, all single moms. They help each other out. You will focus on those women, their problems, their daily lives, the support they give one another.”

I suppose meeting four independent women could be interesting. $50,000. Still, Massachusetts is a lot colder and snowier in winter than the Riviera. “Any more information?”

Barbara continues. “No research. No limitations. Just interface with the women. I think a creative non-fiction approach will work best, don’t you?”

One problem I’ve had writing corporate stuff or some articles are limitations. Truth is relative and color is often left out. In creative nonfiction, I can create scenes, use dialogue. It’s almost as good as writing a novel.

Who am I kidding? When I wrote my two novels, I wasn’t in charge either. Ideas jumped into my computer. I want that to happen again when I’m in France. Maybe, I’m not being realistic, but I see France as a creativity period to nourish me.

I say nothing. I know silence drives Barbara crazy. I’m right. She has to break it. “I’ve been given a short profile of each of them. I bet you’d like them all.”

Some snowflakes drift by my bay window in front of my desk. Good God. Early November and snow? “Timing?

“Four months.”

After I finish the book, I could spend spring and summer in France. Even fall or maybe if I’m careful winter or longer.

“When do I meet my client?”

“You don’t. She’s too busy in New York.”

“I could fly down.”

“She doesn’t want a meeting, at least yet, but she’s prepared everything you need. I’ve emailed you a PDF of the contract and the profiles. You could start the first appointment next week.”

I give Barbara some more objections, but she knows I am going to say yes. It’s too tempting an assignment and the money is too good. I can put off France for a couple of months.

Damn it.