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1074. webfeet - 6/24/2013 5:55:41 PM Alright, Im back. Its been a hellish two months which I will spare you.
However, there was a highlight from my trip to France in March I know you will all appreciate.
So my glamorous agent, K., has invited French cat and I to have lunch with her and her husband, at one of those pretentious, but jaw-droppingly beautiful villas in Eze Village, a stone throw from Monaco, with Cypress trees and the kind of plunging, Fitgerald-esque views that call up Jazz Age glamour and various dog-eared paperbacks over the last century.
Arriving early, French cat and I parked along the corniche (there was valet parking but we didnt seem to know that) and entered the white-washed pristine lobby of the villa (its called Chateau Estrelle or something) and took a seat on the canapes on the terrace, and ordered a white wine and people-watched, with front row seats, literally, of an international entourage that looked like they were in a Versace ad. They were speaking German, Italian, and the women wore dresses Ive only seen in Barneys. Everytime a new guest arrived, say a British ex-rocker type in red skinny jeans with his model girlfriend, thirty years his junior, tottering in heels that looked like Alexander Mcqueen torture devices, they would all put down their champagne flutes and engage in a horribly stilted round of painful introductions speaking tetbook english. The host, a german businessman, was wrapped in a pink pashmina. It was cold after all. And it was Easter Sunday on the Cote d'Azure.
It was Easter Sunday and the Mediteranean was sunny and blue (homage to hemingway awful writing) and, finally, K made her entrance like a Hollywood agent out of David O. Selznick (shes from CA). After kissy poos, we went down the grand stairs to the dining room, which was not quite sea level, but some guests were bronzing on lounge chairs a yard away.
Seated by the french doors, with a view to the banquet, (the entourage had since multiplied and were joined by "families" European grandmothers, all wearing Harry Winston and gowns, while I looked like I was going to a wind concert at Lincoln Center in pumps, black skirt and a sily gray top zi got cor fourteen euros the day before at Monoprix 1075. webfeet - 6/24/2013 5:57:30 PM that was "silky" gray top.
I have to go do something unspeakably boring righht now.
To be continued... 1076. webfeet - 6/24/2013 9:17:58 PM Seated next to French cat, who is playing the part of the elegant French husband perfectly, facingK., her husband and the sea, I feel like pinching myself. After all, isn't this a moment out of every writer's dreams? to rise from the Jack Nicholson/Shining moments of toiling in insane obscurity, to be toasting what feels like your-soon-to-be bestseller over Burgundy wine with your literary agent on the Cote?
After pleasantries, anecdotes and a trip to the buffet where various crustace and vials of basil puree mousse are on display, we get seated and get down to business. I feel jittery, and expectant, waiting for news about an editor in New York. Upon inquiry, I take a careful sip of wine as I wait for K's reply. Her hazel eyes hold mine. "So?" I gulp.
"She hasn't rejected it--yet but usually its not a good sign when they don't respond right away after being so enthusiastic."
Holding my attention, before I can even reach for the bottle, she gives me the look of a stern college professor. "You're going to have to do one more re-write."
Digesting this, like a bad oyster, I lift my crustacean fork, and, smiling through my pain, wheedle out the slimey innards of a sea urchin, all the while wondering who would play such an elaborate and cruel joke on me.
The lunch was nevertheless elegant, sumptuous and K. and her husband were entertaining. Passionate connoisseurs they had a gout exquis for choosing the wine, tomgo with the lamb, which, in the spirit of nouvel cuisine, did not look like lamb but a little ping pong ball. We parted ways at the top of the villa, after the entourage had long dispersed into their respective 'Mercedes.
Waving to K. and hubby with a view of the Mediterranean as a backdrop, I got into the passenger seat beside Frenchcat, and all I could think of, as we rode along the Corniche in the direction of the autoroute, was that I had to do one more, stinking rewrite. Merde. 1077. webfeet - 6/24/2013 9:23:35 PM So, I did it. And, during the course of the lunch K. told me I needed a blog.
And now, Jenerator, Thoughtful and cher Alistair, et al, you have it.
www.frenchwomendontrun.com
I feel like I just came out of the closet. There is even a link by the book excerpts of K's agency, if you are curious.
it may chronicle my travails as a writer which I am inclined to do here, mostly unbidden, but it will also be a francophile diary, with odd insights and essays on our beloved French. Vive le blog!
Bisous! 1078. webfeet - 6/25/2013 5:21:55 PM Thoughtful, Im so happy you remembered the dress scene in the cabine from Paris. I think, in the Parisian version, I couldnt fit into white pants in France without looking obscene. It was just one of many mortifying moments in dressing rooms in France. And I am not fat! And I certainly wasn't fifteen years ago. Gosh, that is a long time, isn't it?
I did do a version for my book, French Women Don't Run, when my character, who is post-partum and in need of a thalasso spa, is dress shopping with her french monster-in-law and her exquisitely dressed friend, Fabienne, and can't fit into any of the dresses selected for her. I added a pesky poodle, Fabienne's, who comes to a terrible end.
I was practically called evil by editors for that scene but I insisted on sticking with it. K tried to get me to change it, too, but I think its funny. 1079. arkymalarky - 6/28/2013 6:46:27 PM Nice blog! The French countryside reminded Stan and me of Arkansas with much more comfortable air. I could enjoy an extended stay there. I was surprised at how rural France was. 1080. alistairconnor - 7/1/2013 2:47:25 PM Ooh some catching up to do. 1081. bhelpuri - 7/1/2013 2:52:13 PM Yes, me too. Well done, webbie! 1082. bhelpuri - 7/1/2013 2:56:52 PM And how cool is what's up! Well done, Webbie! So excited for your book... 1083. wabbit - 7/1/2013 5:56:51 PM webfeet, I can't wait to read your book - love the blog!
Hey there Bhel and AC! 1084. webfeet - 7/2/2013 12:43:20 AM Grande merci, mes amis! Wabbit! So happy to hear from you--and Arky, I would hope your husband would enjoy reading it, because this is not women's fiction--so much is about rural France and its peasant heritage. I may publish some excerpts tonight--given this enthusiastic response!
Bhelpuri--such a pleasure, thank you!
If anyone is in NYC or the south of France, this summer, drop me a line at literarylustre@gmail.com. Love to hear from everybody otherwise.
I will be moderating comments, regularly. I just received my first nasty one. It was from Alistair, actually.
How did you get so crotchety, mon vieux? 1085. arkymalarky - 7/2/2013 1:15:23 AM Oooh please do! Stan is out on the tractor as I type. 1086. webfeet - 7/3/2013 3:39:45 AM Yes, I will, toute de suite. I just added a new post, "Do you have egg on your face?' --but you mustn't read it if you are a male, so tell Stan to skip that one.
Posting a new excerpt--the one that has cost me countless rejections over a certain poodle killing scene. I'd be interested in hearing what you think--but please send your comments to my site where I will be moderating. merci! 1087. arkymalarky - 7/3/2013 4:13:34 AM Oh absolutely! 1088. Jenerator - 7/17/2013 7:59:07 PM This makes me so happy! Webfeet - you're such a talented writer. 1089. alistairconnor - 7/23/2013 4:56:11 PM Been spamming the Bibiche blog. Bwahahaha.
What me, crotte-shitty? 1090. webfeet - 7/27/2013 2:22:51 PM I was a little vexe, but Im over it, especiallysince I received some engaging posts both from you and La Jenerator. But anything us better than silence.
In Aix en Provence, there a no troubles. Sans mari and enfants, and in-laws, my only care is which gazpacho shall I buy for dinner? Green or red?
The world is a gentle, bourgeois place with powdery sunsets, pool clubs and topless Anerican and French girls sunbathing, their voices giving rise to the most charming, idle thoughts. The American girl, a student, is chatty and anecdotal, speaking great colloquial French, as she shares family stories, gives psychoanalytic run-downs on the boy she likes and makes amusing, reflective comments in another language while the French girl wonders what she is going to eat for dinner and comments on their classmate Marie's tits.
1091. arkymalarky - 7/27/2013 3:30:16 PM I've been reading and enjoying it, but not commenting. 1092. arkymalarky - 7/27/2013 11:33:22 PM I've been reading and enjoying it, but not commenting. 1093. webfeet - 8/1/2013 10:54:26 PM Oh, thank you, arky. Entertainment is my vocation.
Actually, for once, surprise! I didnt come here to talk about MY book, moi.
But to recommend, before I sleep, Edith Wharton's 'Custom of the Country' a wry look at American parvenus in Paris. This is always the motif, but the protagonist, Undine Spragg, is so vain and selfish, a bumpkin who marries into old money (first in New York) ; the. in France only to find that there isnt any money in old money and its the Americans who are gobbling up the Clovis tapestries and have all the cash.
Totally fun but meaty summer reading.
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