My Summer in Paris

The first of my three months in Paris has passed. I had intended to bring you along for the entire journey, but here we are now. Hello. I’ve been held back by my desire to share when there was something substantial to offer, but curiosity about the process is persistent. While this experience is deeply personal, I understand the intrigue on some level.

Writing is an inherently solitary practice. The solitude demanded by this craft is new to me, resulting in less frequent communication. (I am committed to resuming my weekly newsletter issues.) It means needing time to do absolutely nothing. It means that I read, I write, and I walk.

“How’s writing coming along?” I receive this question every day now. My responses vary from “meh” to a lukewarm “it’s coming along” to acknowledging progress towards finding my flow. The truth is, it’s challenging. Even on the days when I adhere to my writing plan, it remains a challenge. But as I’ve said to friends, “it’s no different from any other profession. Some days you leap out of bed, eager to dive into your work, and some days it feels like a chore. Not every day is a good writing day.” I write anyway, and I promise to love myself regardless of how I feel about whatever ends up on the page.

There’s a French proverb—l’appetit vient en mangeant—which translates to “appetite comes with eating.” It speaks to the idea that the greatest motivation stems from the momentum we build by simply starting, and that we discover that our desires tend to grow as we engage in the activity. This truth also holds for my writing. I can’t always wait for enthusiasm or bursts of creative brilliance to strike. I must initiate the process, allowing my energy and intention to carry me forward.

Yet, I remain aware that this is a unique and special opportunity—to spend a summer in Paris while working on my manuscript, to spend the summer writing. To follow the trail paved by Langston Hughes, Jessie Fauset, James Baldwin, Gwendolyn Bennett, Richard Wright and many others. I call upon the ancestors—of lineage and of spirit: my grandmother, Effie, Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Joan Didion, Tina Turner—and I ask for their guidance and their wisdom. I ask for clear words and clear vision. I thank them for their example. For breaking down the barriers between desire and possibility. For unlocking the doors through which inspiration flows, even when it feels out of reach. For reminding me that despite writing being a solitary act, it is also an act of connection.

As I continue to look for the perfect places to perch and put pen to paper—in my apartment, within my arrondissement, and throughout Paris—I am deeply grateful that I’ve been able to create this time. I write this from London where I took a short train ride up to have dinner with a friend I’ve only seen on Zoom over the past year. I’ve enjoyed a few lunches and dinners with local friends and those passing through. I’ve done a little shopping and a lot of Duolingo. But mostly, I read, I write, and I walk.

Each step offers the promise of discovery, of unearthing truths that have long been buried within me. I walk, capturing fragments of Paris that will forever be etched into my writing. With each passing day, each week, and each month, I sense a subtle shift within me. I am learning to surrender to the ebb and flow of my creative process.

For now, the journey continues, both on the page and on Eurostar.

Until next time, be well.