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

On a dog walk: an old abandoned bergerie on the heights, at the setting of the sun.

Four weeks ago I arrived at No.10, Chalabre, to work on and edit my book with Laury Dizengremel.

Winter had just begun to close in and the sumptuous, autumnal colours blanketing the countryside were on the verge of diminishing. The cold had not yet gripped the air, and middays were still warm. In the narrow streets of Chalabre smoke from chimney stacks scented the air. The shutters of peoples’ homes were still left open in the daytime; the French were yet to hibernate for the winter.

During the last three weeks there, Laury and I toiled away at various tasks and the premier being my book. But there were many other important travails to preoccupy us. Laury had a lecture on sculpture to prepare for, as well as for a Marché de Noël (Christmas fare) where she would display some of her art and bronze busts. For this market we worked together mending the fatigue of some of her resin sculptures.

Laury working on her ‘I can scare crows’.

Living with Laury and her husband Joe in their splendid home is one of life’s greatest experiences and pleasures. In their household, one is expected to take part in all the daily routines (to do rather than to be told to do); but the household gives just as much back than it demands. Under the sway of Laury who is always ready on her feet, with a whipping intensity, I feel realigned to a more fuller and active life. Work starts when it starts and stops when it stops; there is no given hour. And just the same, play starts when it starts, and stops… well, it never really stops.

Between the hours when Laury and I duet over my book, or making repairs to her statues, I might take the dogs out for a long walk. Here in the Aude and Ariege is a mesmerising, sylvan landscape: undulating with oak and pine forests, gorged by crystal clear rivers or streams, and dotted with idyllic villages whose red-pantiled dwellings or chateaux are ancient and enchanting. The dogs of course love to walk here, and so do I. I love to put on my boots (the boots I had worn walking across France), don my casquette anglaise and stride up mud-grooved paths, through moist woods and hear the rushing and gurgling water in the dales.

L’Hers near Lesparrou

In moments of reprise, I would go off to paint with watercolours, whilst enjoying the odd, pleasurable cigarette I rarely allow myself during the day. The plane trees on their periodic hibernation let their leaves go: I loved listening to each leaf as I sat and painted smacking the other below as it descended through the foliage. A village dog would nonchalantly potter on past from time to time. Locals smiled at me and said bonjours, keenly leaning over as they went to glimpse my amateurish work.

Where I sat painting Camon.

Every Thursday at Val’s bar (Café des Sports) is Toc Night. Toc is a French game played by four players with two teams. It is played with marbles on a board, the marbles have to circle the board and reach their home whilst trying not to be caught by the opposing team’s marbles. (The intricacies are difficult to explain.)

From outside Val’s, during a Toc night (it was quite chilly, everyone was inside).

I went to two Toc nights during December. Having not played Toc since a year and a half ago, on the first night my team was resoundingly beaten (I made three stupendous errors). On the second Toc night I fared a little better, but with my teammate and not because of her, we still lost. These nights were great fun and after the games were done Stella’s pizzas were delivered (an old lady who makes pizzas from her home), and the drinking continue.

After one Toc night, I sat with the local sages Roland and Renaud. One might say Roland is an elder of the village, he was the man who taught me Toc and the Toc gathering at Val’s was his idea. He delights in trying to bring together the Anglo-speaking contingency with the local French. I am on cheek-kissing terms with Roland and every now and then he quotes French adages to me (which he then explains in English) and I commend his patience as we speak French together.

One might say Renaud is an ancient elder of the village. He was born before the Second World War: I asked him if he remembered the War and he replied that he had only quinze years (fifteen years of age) at the time of the war and remembered little now. His age is somewhere between ninety and one hundred years (I quite forget), and notwithstanding this he is sound of hearing and solid of mind. I loved his posture as he sat on his seat, slightly reposed but leaning so as not to miss a word said to him. He had bright, discerning eyes. He is frail and yet not frail for his age. His gums recede but he spoke with clarity. He was jovial and drank his red wine like a true Frenchman. Age has not belied him.

L’Abbaye de Camon, where the marché de Noël of Camon is held. Laury’s steel woven horse sculpture, bottom right.

When Laury and I work on my book, we work in a rather comfortable setting and proceed in a rather amusing and intellectually stimulating manner. Normally, we sit together by the hot hearth in the kitchen, either with coffee in the day or with red wine in the evening, all the while the dogs lounge in their beds (or Neptune cooks himself besides the fire, staring curiously at the drama of flames). Laury requires no warm-up, she immediately hones in on a task set before her. Within a second from sitting down she is analysing a line or considering a paragraph and already is formulating queries or finding an issue. Laury is courageous and has a compulsion to honesty; she is not afraid to offend me which I now see is essential when editing. Is not honesty at the root of any improvement?

The process of editing with Laury is underpinned by a constant dialogue. I have found this greatly rewarding, the dialogue is series of fun and witty exchanges and longer forms of conversation reflecting on a given moment in my text. Laury may pick out a misused word, or be unsettled by the ordering of a paragraph, or struggle to make sense where there is lack of it. We might take a tangent at a curious topic, theme or historical moment. Prompted by my work, she would sometimes reflect on her own life and experiences and for a wonderful ten minutes or more, I would have the pleasure of Laury telling a captivating story.

Laury’s intensity would from time to time catch me out short of breath or slow of mind. It was always amusing to be suddenly and literally struck, in rapid bursts of fists and slaps whenever Laury had come upon an egregiously used word. ‘NO, NO, NO!’ she would burst out with added invective, whilst beating me. ‘You just cannot use that word! You really mean this…’ and so she would give me the word I actually had meant.

Bartering: the repairs and additions to the base of Laury’s statue before I laminated it.

And so on we worked (between verbal and non-verbal beatings): page by page, paragraph by paragraph, word by word. Until finally, after much whipping, flogging and flaying, the book of 214 pages was pretty much ironed out flat. We drank to our endeavour.

Unfortunately this is not the end, even though this is very much the beginning of the end. Yes, the heavy lifting has been done, but there is still more work to be done. The book must be reread a few times more, and with an editor’s eye. Undoubtedly mistakes have escaped our notice and they must be rooted out like garden weeds. Moreover, there are a few more questions I must ask myself with regards to the content of the book, as well as considering if any ameliorate touches could be added.

Looking ahead, I wish to go down the traditional publishing route, which means I have to prepare myself to present myself and my work. I will have to learn elements of professionalism; I will have to understand my book as a commercial product in the light of business and its potential audience. All of these un-enchanting adjustments I could loath if they were not life’s reality and I had to embrace them (alas, the world won’t just bend over for me).

Marcus and Jackie with Henry and Homer.

Before I departed Chalabre I went to visit my good friends Marcus and Jacky. They live a fair distance away where the hills steepen and the mist in the vales lingers just a little longer in the morn. The drive is a good forty minutes and on the day I ventured there it rained heavily and the wipers beat furiously. When I arrived the dogs Homer and Hamish went wild, jumped and licked me all over. How wonderful it was to see this merry troop again. It was to be a lovely, charming evening beside the hearth.

M and J were hunkering down in what could be called a logger’s lodge, whilst they worked restoring their new (old) home in the village. It was cold but, because of the hearth, cosy. Marcus cooked ribs and poured leathery wine, both brought from Spain over the Pyrenees. We sat by the gently crackling fire, warming our toes, talking and talking as it is good for the soul to do. Homer climbed onto my chair and snoozed next to me for a while. Marcus eventually fell asleep for a moment in his chair, only to stir again and go to bed. I put two logs on the fire, brought the sofa up closer and slept a brilliant night’s sleep. With the luscious wine, the surfeit of cheese, the pork’s ribs in my tummy, the scent of burning beech and oak in my nostrils, the warmth of a fire, the soft sofa like a cloud, and the memory of delightful conversation, I dreamt the most pleasantest dreams and arose the next morning rekindled and joyful as I have never woken before.

Me, falling asleep by the fireplace drinking the last of the red wine. (I snoozed off holding a bulb of red wine on my belly, wine went everywhere!)

Damn it, it is Christmas Eve, I should have published this a week ago! Grandparents are over, lots of festive things to do, drink and eat. I feel I am so close with this book, just a few more pushes. I have another article I should have finished two months ago which I will try to get finished before the new year.

Merry Christmas everyone.