Towards the end of a year, towards the end of a book, Part I: The Folly of Writing

The brass-potted chandelier in the dinning room and kitchen, designed by Laury Dizengremel and fashioned together by Joe Caneen.

The candid recording of this article.

Several months ago, I felt myself in a position just about able to try and seek a publisher for my book. The book, I thought, could perhaps be in a position ready to approach its industry, but I was wrong. By the end of February I began to realise a weakness that pervaded my own writing.

I had spent almost three years working on a travelogue which follows my adventures across the country of France. During that time, I was compelled by a fervour and love for the task I had set myself; I had put my soul into the challenge and had poured onto pages and pages my naive verve, my hopeful authenticity and wistful ways. But the reality of my naivety, which I had observed as much as I could be self-aware, came to me in a realisation. I needed to do a much more thorough examination of the work I had created.

I had written over four hundred pages, which is to say I wrote a lot more than that, but changed and corrected so much of it. But as I observed my work again and again the flaws saddened me, the breadth almost defeated me and pushed me into a deep despair. The work that was needed to be done to enhance my book and rectify it, to a worthy standing, was growing beyond my capacity at that moment.

As I worked, I had naturally divided the book into three sections, which broadly contained three different historically cultural regions of France. I observed this natural development and saw an opportunity to alleviate the increasingly intensive nature I had in working to complete it so soon. That is to say, to capture at least some of the dragon I had been endlessly chasing.

A bust copy of David, with my scarf and hat.

I decided to divide my work into three parts or three books. Each a frame of particular regions I had passed through, each nicely fitting into quantifiable, small travelogues. There were many reasons why this developing idea to divide my book seemed logically expedient to my situation. Not least because a smaller and chirpier book is far more accessible to an audience I wished to reach in the future. For example: yes, if I am a worthy writer from the first book then I can in the future compile the other books into one.

But for now it seemed wiser to concentrate on the first section, the first book. It was best written and had had the most time spent over it.

To be thorough, I could not just rely on myself – I needed someone else. So I opened my hitherto somewhat private words and paragraphs, which I had worked on for so long, to other eyes. I did not seek those eyes out as you might assume; I did not pressure others to look upon my work. A few fortuitous, or even serendipitous discussions with close friends and family led to a rallying assistance to my book.

A sister, a mother and a local friend took pity. My mother managed to joyfully go through my entire book, making many meaningful and clever observations. So too my sister, who endeavoured through sixty-odd pages, whilst simultaneously herself endeavouring her fast-tracked doctorate in medicine. And my dear friend, who whilst on a great road herself into the world of journalism, took some time off to peruse a few passages of mine – and not with faint effect.

As my mother finished the final pages of my now first book of three, another soul, close to me, came forward to offer assistance. I had spent two and a half years, since my peripatetic voyage across France, mostly in France. During that period, I lived in a little and charming village called Chalabre. I lived in a house at the requested invitation of a certain Joe and Laury. On their acceptance, I found myself suddenly in an eclectic house of heightened existence, a house in which many people came to stay and went, where friends and neighbours were welcome, where wine and food were served in revelry, where often the piano was played or poetry recounted, where people of all ages enjoyed each others company to the fullest. It was all a wonderful and endearing time.

Neptune snoozing on a chair I often sit whilst working my book.

Laury a sculptress and Joe a craftsman, were two great souls to live with. It was Laury, who not without credentials to the task, offered to edit my book and assist me in my endeavour. Instantly she worked on it, with increasing amazement on my part, to pry apart the mistakes and the lack of sense which I had woven into my text.

Many months passed, in which her attention was distracted by her own pressing life, but she never forgot the vow she had given to me; and I trusted, now knowing her very well, that she meant it when she said she wanted to help me. So I waited with patience, over the summer. I worked in Chalabre with my good friend Angus, an a-class chef and butler, in a chateau own by friends of ours, who bedded it with paying guests whom we served.

Then came autumn and Laury, who now free from her hectic schedule of summer, proposed a few weeks in Chalabre when and where we could work together to finish editing and advancing my book.

I am here now in Chalabre after almost a week. In the beginning I spent two days hosted by my dear friend Eve, enjoying each other’s company, but using the time to re-read my work, so as to have a fresh grasp on it before I l would leave to go to Laury’s abode. I have spent the subsequent days with my dear hosts Joe and Laury. Truly working on my book, really getting to terms with my words and in a joyous and productive, if not light-hearted, manner.

Two more weeks are at hand, which might prove very important to the development of my dream. I will not only work on my book, but also assist in the work for a house in renovation. I shall plaster many walls, hope to speak good French words and sentences and see friends again whom I have made over the years. But through it all, I am to continue to strive towards my goal, my beloved book.

Farewell hopefully to the Folly of Writing.