The Red & The Black

Curious coincidences today... the kind that arouse my curiosity. I got on the Metro headed for Shakespeare and Company, the English bookstore that Hemingway made famous. I like it. I was there the other day and almost bought a couple of books. I went back today to get them and, I thought I'd add Tolstoy to the mix. I read on the Metro, which I always do. I'm reading How Fiction Works by James Wood, a fascinating book that analyzes what makes good fiction. Today, I read about The Red and The Black, a French novel by Stendhal. Wood got my attention: I started thinking I should read Stendhal.  (The photo is not of the bookstore, but is nearby.)

Stendhal is a contemporary, alive in my time period. In fact, The Red and The Black was published in 1830, the year my book opens. So, when I got to Shakespeare and Company and they didn't have the translation of War and Peace that Andrew told me to get, I bought The Red and The Black instead. About an hour later in the midst of a serious rain storm, I sat in a little café, drinking wine and reading the introduction—I learned that:

On 29 July 1830 in Paris during the July Revolution, a red and black flag was seen flying from the Vendôme Column signifying a fight to the death. On 25 February 1830 at the first night of Hernani, red and black tickets were issued to the claque chosen to champion Victor Hugo's new Romantic drama within the last bastion of Classical taste, the Comédie Francaise. What better title could Stendhal have chosen…

The Vendôme Column was erected by Napoleon to celebrate a war victory. At the time of the 1830 uprising, it was topped with a statue of Napoleon crowned in laurels and holding a sword in his right hand, a globe in his left. The statue resisted an attempt in 1814 to pull it down. Thus, the "fight to the death" symbolism. This is not something I knew. The statue of Napoleon was finally pulled down, after the 1830 rebellion. Louis Napoleon commissioned a replacement probably in the latter part of the 19th century. The Vendôme Column is near the Madeleine church, where Chopin's funeral was held.

Within about an hour of the time I read that, I saw a street demonstration—people parading with red and black flags. The Left, communists and anarchists. Yesterday farmers came to Paris and burned hay along Champs-Élysées. They were protesting the prices they're getting for grain. I'm not sure what today's demonstration was about, but it was Red and Black. Truly. Lots of red and black flags, perhaps signaling "a fight to the death." Synchronicity. The street violence of 1830 must include flags. Demonstrators in Paris run with flags. And the church bells were ringing this afternoon; I don't know why.

I was in the Latin Quarter because I decided to go to another piano concert. 160 years ago today (October 17, 1849), Frederick Chopin died. Is there any connection between Chopin and Stendhal? They were friends. And I do know Tolstoy said he "was indebted to Stendhal." Another interesting tidbit: Stendhal knew Lord Byron, and like Byron, seems to have been obsessed with women and falling in love—though for Stendhal, it was mostly unrequited. He wrote a book on love.

It was held in the same little church—the Church of Saint Julien le Pauvre—where last Sunday I heard the Beethoven and Chopin concert. This time I got a front row seat, a perfect view of the pianists hands moving on the keyboard. It was phenomenal. It made me cry.

One more bit of curious synchronicity: the main character in The Red and The Black is named Julien.  My interpretation of all this? I'm not sure, except clearly I must read the book. I have the feeling it's going to be both useful and influential. Stendhal is not considered a Romantic. He's rather one of the first Realists and his psychological analysis of character, so early in the 19th century is considered unprecedented. His real name is Marie-Henri Beyle; Stendhal is a pen name.

Saint Julien le Pauvre is just around the corner from the bookstore, Shakespeare & Company. There's a tree behind the chapel, in the little park that abuts it, that was planted in 1602. If you look carefully you'll see the cement in the trunk that's helping, I guess, to support the trunk? I'm not sure.

I spent the afternoon walking around the area near the church. I found a little shop that sells purses, scarves, hats, gloves and jewelry. I loved their stuff and ended up buying gloves, which I had been wanting for last few days, and also a big warm scarf, which I was very happy to have sitting in the church. It was cold enough to cause me to worry about the pianist. I guess the fact that she was working hard kept her warm.

The Workshop Has Ended

Five days, nine to five. I've been studying writing. It's been intense and in many ways, impossible to write about. I've learned a lot, but I'm looking forward to the open, unstructured space that tomorrow represents. I came home today and shopped in my little marché (farmers market) that comes every Friday to Place D'Anvers just a couple blocks from where I live.

I found this picture of Place D'Anvers from the turn of the century, with Sacre Coeur in the background—painted by Monsieur Victor-Gabriel Gilbert.  Now the view looks more like it does in the picture below.

I purchased more string beans than I wanted at the market and bought a very tasty Toulouse Sausage. I also bought an inexpensive coffee mug, something I've been contemplating since my arrival almost five weeks ago. And I had a bit of a conversation in French. A young woman—probably in her mid-twenties—was selling jewelry. She asked me if I was English. I said no, American, and I told her I was from California. She liked hearing that so I added that I lived near San Francisco. She asked about hippies—I think she said, wasn't San Francisco was where the hippies lived.

I said yes, and told her that I'd been one of them. She liked that too. I told her I was here in Paris for three months to work on a book. She asked what kind of book and what it was about. I was able to tell her it was a historical novel about 19th century Paris. She found that very odd. I think she couldn't imagine why I would be bothering to do such a thing. Eventually, I ran out of my capacity to speak French, but it was the longest sustained conversation (in French) I've had with anyone about anything. She was asking the right questions, the simple things that I learned to talk about when I was studying French this summer.  It was clumsy, but I was happy to have said as much as I did. It was fun.

I still get very excited when I'm able to communicate in French. This morning I purchased my coffee at the bar in a little café. It's cheaper that way, you don't pay for a table. You stand at the bar, like in Italy and just drink your coffee and go. I did that and later purchased a new French Press coffee pot, having broken mine last night. All these things I managed in French and that makes me very happy. They each reflect the ways in which I have started to adapt to my world and get more comfortable moving through it. I'm more relaxed.

My friend Toni is coming next Friday. She'll be here for ten days and during that time, school will be on fall break, both for the French and for me.  Because of Janine—who lives in Provence and has offered to help us find a place to stay and has said she'll even show us around one day—we're planning, now, to go to the South of France.

It's about a two and a half hour train ride to Avignon, a little longer to Aix-en-Provence. I'm excited by the prospect of traveling south. I don't know much about the area, except that everyone loves it and I know there's a café in Aix-en-Provence called The Deux Garçons, which was built in 1792 and frequented by Cézanne, Émile Zola, and even Ernest Hemingway. Cézanne was born in Aix-en-Provence in 1832. Aix-en-Provence is very old, going back, basically to before the time of Christ. It's a city of art, fountains, markets and country beauty. Also, I hear, it's the best place to eat French cuisine. So. Sounds good to me.

In fact, I just read that Provence has been inhabited since prehistoric times. There's a cave somewhere in the region called Valloet that dates to something like 600,000 BC, and also some underwater cave decorated with drawings of bisons, seals, penguins and horses. The Greeks, the Gauls and the Romans have all inhabited the area, and, of course, early Christians. Around 1300, the pope moved to Avignon. Janine has suggested we stay in Avignon, but it's a city, so I don't know. All this will become clear in the next several days.

Meanwhile, there's tomorrow. I'm not sure what I'm going to do tomorrow, but I'm very happy to have the opportunity to make up my mind. I may go to Montmartre for the day. I'm feeling like interacting with my environment, though the weather is changing. It's starting to get colder. It's crisp in the mornings, cold at night. I feel like writing and may even take my laptop with me and work in some café. That's something I've yet to do. I always have my journal with me, though, and write in it—but it's quite different to work on my computer. On the other hand, I'm also inclined to go to an English bookstore, probably back to Shakespeare and Company and I won't want to drag my computer around if I'm going to do that. Who knows, I may even buy War and Peace, and do as Andrew has spent the week encouraging me to do—begin studying it. There are several other books on my mind too.

Writing Workshop: Day Three

Wednesday. Day three of my writing workshop with Andrew Todhunter. Today we spent the afternoon talking about the first twenty pages of The Appassionata. What a pleasure to have so much attention! Andrew is legendary, at least among the writers I know, for his "cut to the bone," attitude toward prose. I was prepared to hear something along those lines from him, and in fact, his emphasis was on what he could cut from my prose, but he was talking a word here, a word there, occasionally a phrase or sentence. The most exciting thing about his cuts, actually, was the fact that when he read my prose out loud with the cuts he suggested, he was right. The text was stronger, his editing made the language sing. Several times I found myself thinking, "Wow, did I write that?"

He stopped to read places where he really liked my prose, complementing me on the tightness of my language—saying there was nothing to be cut. That was exciting too. And I've never had a writing instructor or editor rave about my choice of punctuation, but Andrew pointed out places where my use of a comma, a semi-colon or a dash was "perfect," and explained why.

I left the workshop this afternoon feeling different about myself and my writing. I suppose I shouldn't be so dependent on the opinions of others, but, I was pretty blown away to be absolutely honest by Andrew's assessment of my writing. He liked it. He was excited as he talked about it—and the fact that he's won a PEN USA Literary Award doesn't hurt. It helps me trust his opinion.

One of the things he's providing as part of the workshop is a one-on-one consultation and mine is tomorrow evening. I'm looking forward to that too, of course. It's an opportunity to follow up on what happened today. Part of what was important about today was the time we had to look at my work. Andrew talked to me and to everyone in the workshop about my writing for well over an hour. In fact, the group spent the entire afternoon discussing my writing. In the end Andrew used my prose as a teaching tool, going through it very carefully, pointing out what was working and why, and also talking about why he would cut this word or that phrase, talking about how he works with his own writing. It was eye-opening.

He directed me to Tolstoy more than once. Study War and Peace, he said, like a painter copies the masters to learn his art, like Gericault, who spent six years copying masterpieces in the Louvre. Tolstoy and Balzac. I'm already studying Hugo at that level, and, of course, when I was working on Requiem, I was obsessed with reading 19th century British literature. I couldn't stop, actually.

The other happy happenstance is that Janine, the British woman who has lived here for so many years, was able to catch the "Americanisms," in my dialogue and turn them into "Frenchisms" for me. We came up with a trade: she's so French at this point, that she needs help with English grammar and structure, which I can provide, and in exchange, she can help me with the French element. I don't mean French words, per se, although that too, but even the way a sentence unfolds if it's trying to capture the sense of the French language in English.

For example, changing "Come" to "Do come quickly," or "Who is that?" to "Would you know that person?" We talked a lot about my dialogue, which she thought was mostly working. It's the subtleties, sometimes because they're out of time, too modern, other times because they're too American or simply don't reflect the way the French language shapes thought and communication. I'm very excited to have the possibility of this kind of assistance. I hope it works out.

The upshot of today's events is I'm going to sleep feeling happy, maybe happier than I've felt since arriving here. That's because today's events reinforced the feeling that I should be here doing what I'm doing, that it's worth the effort and the gamble—that I'm on the right track. That's something I needed. I needed to feel that I was worthy of this undertaking. I'm feeling that tonight.

Paris is a challenge—that's not going to change, and the very audacity of my project overwhelms me at times with doubt. Who do I think I am? But much of that doubt got put in its place today. That doesn't mean it won't come back. And there's much left to do to bring this book to fruition, but I see the way forward. I feel like I understand what I'm doing much better this evening than I did even this morning and, most importantly, I feel capable of pulling it off, of doing it well.

Shifting Gears

I'm in a five-day writing class. It's located on the Left Bank near Saint Germain. It's really the area I was walking through yesterday, a very nice part of Paris, the sixth arrondissement. It's not as touristed as the fifth (the Latin Quarter), nor as grand as the area around the Eiffel Tower. So far, it might be my next most favorite part of Paris after my own area, meaning the north of the 9th and Montmartre. I find the Marais interesting too...  Well really, I don't know. Every area I've visited has something, and probably part of the reason I like my own little neighborhood is because it's familiar now. I know what's here and how it works—that and the fact that it's not touristed, that I hear more French here, than English.

I had lunch with two women from the class, both of whom speak French better than I do. One is an American from Maine who owns an apartment in Paris; the other is British. The British woman lives in Provence with her French husband and has for ten years or so. She speaks English with a French accent, or so it seems to me. She's absolutely at home speaking French. I enjoyed being in the company of French speaking people and in a very busy café where locals eat. We went inside and that was a different experience than sitting on the street. It was also different to be walking around with a couple of women who knew their way around. All I had to do was tag along.

We spent most of the day getting acquainted with one another and talking about the writing process and what's going to happen over the next four days. It was a completely different kind of environment  even than the Santa Rosa classes I've been attending—no tests or threats. This was a group of writers.

We're meeting in a little hotel that's very upscale and charming. I just have this one picture of the entryway. It wasn't a picture-taking kind of day and probably won't be for the rest of the week. Not a content-oriented day, rather a process-oriented day. The workshop is with Andrew Todhunter, I've said that right? He's written an award-winning book about eating in Paris called A Meal Observed. I took a workshop with him in Mendocino a couple of years ago and I really like his approach to teaching and to writing. He's a good teacher and I'm looking forward to his influence on my work.

In fact, one of the benefits and challenges of the workshop will be to test the degree to which my "Paris" rings true to people who know and care about Paris. I've no idea what to expect. Andrew did have good things to say in passing about my opening piece that's set amongst the tombs of Père Lachaise. I mentioned that I've been thinking I need to go there in stormy weather and he talked about going there as a young man, sneaking in after dark. He talked too about a dream he had that was very much reminded me of my own dream experiences; he had it sleeping in the ruins of Pompeii.

I've given everyone a copy of the first twenty pages of my novel, which includes the ghosts of Père Lachaise and introduces Tori's world and Victor Hugo's opening of Hernani. It will be very informative to get everyone's feedback and, of course, I'm nervous about it.

Way Too Much Excitement

Last night I didn't get home until about 11pm. It always feels challenging to ride the Metro home at that time of night, and last night was no exception. It gave me some firsthand experience with the kind of fear and perplexity that might have come over Louise and Tori as they hurried home in the increasing street violence of July 1830. When I got off the Metro train at the stop where I change lines to get home, the first thing I noticed was the smell and then the visual validation of smoke. Now that's intense, to come off a subway underground in those tunnels and see (and smell) smoke. I saw a couple of people pull out handkerchiefs and cover their noses; it was that bad.

There was a junction in the tunnels ahead where I had to either go towards my transfer or exit the station. I hesitated unable to decide, the tunnel going toward the transfer looked even smokier than where I was but others were going on toward it anyway. At this point I could hear noise too, yelling and horns honking. No one in the Metro looked panicked, in spite of the smoke, people seemed pretty calm. I followed after everyone moving toward the transfer, and as the smoke increased I also realized that we were going up toward the street and remembered that this particular station is outside and above the street. (Barbès Rochechouart) As we hit street level it became obvious that the disturbance causing both the smoke and the noise was in the street, not the Metro, which was a relief, but it was extremely difficult to grasp just what was happening.

I took the steps and then the escalator up to the platform and from that vantage point could see that cars were stopped and honking and that the smoke seemed to be coming from the intersection. I thought it must be a fire but could see no flames. It didn't look like a building burning, it looked like wild people, and in fact it was—a demonstration of some sort with a lot of organized shouting. People were standing in their vehicles, their upper bodies emerging from sunroofs holding flags. Flags? I couldn't tell what was on them except that they seemed white with green writing. I wondered if it had something to do with the cyclists who take over the streets on Sundays as a protest against global warming.

They seemed to be celebrating, except that it felt aggressive and potentially explosive. The Metro was a five minute wait. The platform vibrated with the noise of street. Whatever was going on was right there, right below us, and involved a lot of people. At one point a dozen or so young men emerged on the opposite platform, one of them draped in a flag. They ran across the platform hollering and went down the stairs on the other side as five or six policemen came, rather reluctantly, after them. The noise was unnerving and loud. It was impossible to determine what it was about, but it looked and felt like a lot of people were carrying flags, that the noise was arising from some coordinated effort.

When the Metro finally arrived, a bunch of people exited the train chanting and yelling. They started running as soon as they exited. I boarded; it took the train a long time to close its doors and leave the station. Officials seemed to be walking the length of the train looking for demonstrators. Finally, we were underway and as the train passed over the intersection I could see down into it. That's where the smoke was originating, from a huge number of sparklers and bottle rockets and fireworks.

I'd heard a ton of fireworks go off the night before. I'm not sure if the two events were related. At my stop, (Pigalle, two stops to the west) as I came up onto the street, cars with people standing up through their sunroof and holding flags sped by. Lots of yelling, but no massive traffic jam. The heart of the demonstration was behind me and Rue des Martyrs was quiet. As I crossed the street, I got a clear view of the flags, finally. They were white with a green star and crescent—Islamic flags, not a comforting sight at all. Perhaps related to events in Islamabad? A military raid "that shook the heart of the Pakistani military" according to the New York Times... Seems the most likely, and most chilling explanation of both the firecrackers Saturday and the wild demonstration last night.

When I got into my apartment, I thought, "well, that gives me a lot of emotional information." I had been scared and was very glad to be home.

I'd been out since morning, had a busy and productive day. I visited Delacroix's studio and museum, walked the streets on the left bank where his studio had been during the July 1830 uprising, and worked my way back to the Academy Francaise, coming up behind it, not sure what it was, which was perfect for some of the action in my book and then crossed the Seine and went back to the Louvre because I wanted to see Antonio Canova's sculpture of Cupid and Psyche—Psyche Revived by a Kiss (1804). It's so gorgeous. I had to just sit and stare at it for awhile. It's considered neoclassical, but certainly has Romantic overtones.

I walked through the Greek and Roman sculpture realizing that the main reason I look like a tourist these days is that my mouth is always hanging open in amazement. Eventually I moved on to the Latin Quarter and bought a ticket for the Beethoven/Chopin concert that was keeping me out into the night. It didn't start until 8:30pm, but the pianist was playing both The Pathetique and the Moonlight Sonatas, plus a selection of Chopin that included his Fantasie-Impromptu in C-Sharp Minor. It was a superb concert in the tiny Church of Julien le Pauvre, which sits in the shadow of Notre Dame. I was in the second row, only about six feet from his hands. So incredible to watch someone who can really play, almost surreal.

I also spent time in the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore and basically wandered the streets around Saint Germain and through the Latin Quarter, just walking, allowing myself to be lost and wandering. I had dinner at a little Greek Trattoria, which was the least satisfying aspect of my entire day. The food wasn't that good and was mostly bread and french fried potatoes. (I ordered roasted chicken.) The other unsatisfying aspect of the area, to be honest, was that I heard more English than French. No one even bothers with "merci," or "bonjour." They just speak English like they're in America, which I find a total turnoff.

This morning (for it is morning in Paris, 8am) I'm off to my five-day writing workshop. One last picture, though, before I go. Another sculpture. This little horse was in Delacroix's studio, a piece of work by Gericault that's definitely going to become one of the "details" in my book.

Bon Courage

Big Day: I went out in the morning and didn't come home until almost dark. It threatened rain all day, but mostly I missed it and walked outdoors. In the morning I spent several hours going through the Musée Carnavalet, which is dedicated to the history of Paris, including a whole floor on the French Revolution. Most of what's in the museum is art from the period: paintings, sketches, journalism reflecting the times.

I found some great pictures of Paris in my time period, a couple of them were very large. I didn't get many pictures because, again, flash is not allowed and they keep the rooms fairly dim in order to protect the work. This one is looking toward Paris from Montmartre with all its windmills—wish I could walk through that world.

I also found a picture of Delacroix that I really like. It's a flattering portrait by Charles-Emile-Callande de Champmartin. I couldn't get a picture because of the lighting so I downloaded this one. Interestingly, de Champmartin also painted an image of Georges Sand that I like and the picture I saw in the Hugo museum of Hugo's mistress, Juliette Drouet—again a picture I found very compelling. I can't find anything on the Internet about him, but obviously he knew many of the people I'm writing about.

And here's one of Proust's writing pens and notebooks. It was sitting beside his bed. The museum had a small room appointed with all of his belongings. I get very excited about Proust. I confess I haven't read much of his writing, but I did read the opening of Swan's Way and was really blown away by the description of his childhood fears. It moves so slowly that you've got to have the patience of a saint to stick with it... but what I read has certainly stayed with me... like some exotic perfume.

The rooms dedicated to the Revolution were compelling. My current theory on the Revolution goes something like this: the people rebelled against the tyranny of the King and basically succeeded, but the most radical element of that rebellion took control and engineered The Terror—killing anyone and everyone who stepped out of line or questioned what was happening in any way.

Napoleon rode into the middle of all this and presented a strong, even hand. Essentially, there was a military takeover of an oppressive civilian government. At first Napoleon was a hero, which is why people like Lord Byron were enamored of him. Then he decided he was the reincarnation of a Roman Emperor and should rule all of Europe. Very disappointing. He invaded everyone until finally he was defeated by foreign powers and France ended up where they'd begun—with a King.

I'm really trying to understand The Revolution because it's the backstory of my novel, recent history. Many of the people in my book lived through some or all of it. I need to understand how it shaped their thinking. I need to understand how, even today, it shapes French thinking.

After several hours in the museum, I walked over to the Place des Vosges. I seem to be drawn there. I went back to the same café where I had escargot and had a salad topped with chicken and Parmesan cheese. It was excellent. I spent some time watching the people and then took the Metro to the Louvre and Palais Royal. I didn't go into the Louvre, just explored the streets and the architecture of the area because several important scenes in my book happen there, including the scene I was working on last night, when Louise and Aristide arrive at the Comédie-Française to see Hugo's Hernani.

I went into the Comédie-Française. This is where Moliere made his name and indeed, I bought tickets to see a Moliere play, The Miser. I did it all in French. I communicated the date I wanted the tickets, the price category for the seats; I used a credit card—the whole deal. This was the French National Theatre; they were not interested in doing business in English.

I got intimidated at first and had to sit down and think about what I was going to say, but then I saw a high-tech display on the history of the theater and it was highlighting the performance of Hernani I'm writing about. That impressed me so much I decided I had to buy tickets, so I figured it out. I confess I was down right thrilled when I walked out, tickets in hand. (I bought two because my friend Toni is coming for a visit in a couple of weeks and that's when we're going.)

After leaving the theatre, I stopped to listen to a chamber orchestra of street musicians who were fantastic and to watch some crackerjack roller bladers before walking the Louvre's courtyards. Columns and arches everywhere. It's intimidating to think about trying to describe the grandeur in words. It seems hopeless. I walked all around the area, much the same walk I took with my class a couple of weeks ago. It was easier to take it in the second time around. I'm to the point that I can put the geography together in my mind now. It's becoming familiar.

Eventually I left the Louvre to the south and walked along the Seine toward the Ponte des Arts, a bridge that Liszt and Berlioz cross early-on in my book. I really like the picture I got of the bridge as I approached it.

It's a pedestrian bridge and always has been. It's not the same bridge that was there in 1830, that bridge was damaged and pulled down in the 1970s, but it is similar and in the same place—looking toward L'Académie Française. A gypsy tried to scam me with a gold ring, which is the most recent permutation of their shtick. They pretend to find the ring right in front of you and ask if it's yours, then they offer to sell it to you for "cheap." Or something like that. I frowned and looked angry, like I knew what she was up to. She disappeared quickly.

When I got home, I stopped at the café that's right next door to my apartment and the waiter who has been trying to make my acquaintance for awhile now, was working. We shook hands and talked a little. He speaks no English and I told him that I can barely speak French. We seemed to have a conversation that I mostly didn't understand, but he flattered me with words of encouragement and when I left, told me "bon courage," which more or less means "good luck," but uses "courage" instead of "luck," sort of like saying may you have courage, I think, or maybe, may your courage serve you well.  It was fun.

Writing the Appassionata

I'm about to start a five-day writing intensive on Monday with Andrew Todhunter. Andrew wants about twenty pages of writing, which pushed me to visit the American Library yesterday. It's a public library, not a university library, and I was disappointed, actually, at how little I found there. Clearly, if I am going to do any in-depth research, I need to get to the American University. This library is in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, so I journeyed to yet another part of Paris—the Seventh Arrondissement, an area of broad boulevards and grand buildings on the C Line of the RER, the double-decker train we took to Versailles. I had to pay 9 Euros for a one-day membership to the library before I could even look at the card catalog—expensive and only good for the day, so I stayed the whole afternoon, doing what I could.

I was on the hunt for historical maps of Paris and similar documentation. Among other things, I went through two art books on Gericault and discovered a recently-written novel about him and the painting of The Raft of Medusa—by an award-winning British writer. There's also a film script that's floating around and a new non-fiction work. Lots of interest. So, that helped. Now I know I'm not going rewrite my novel to be about Gericault—it's just been done. The good news is that seemed to resolve my writer's block, simplifying my decision-making process enough that I could write fiction today—for the first time since arriving in Paris. (Yeah!)

It started last night, actually. I got the idea to go over my Table of Contents, which means I actually listened to my own advice. I told students this summer, in the historical fiction class I taught, that if they can't write on the text, work on the Outline/Table of Contents/Chapter-by-Chapter Synopsis—my way of exploring, tracking and embellishing the plot-line of the novel, essentially a map of the book, and every bit as important as the map I carry of Paris everywhere I go. (And use all the time.)

My goal was simple: to add notes for things I know need changing based on my experiences in Paris—things like the staircases and the architecture of the building where Tori lives, or adding the fortuneteller as a character. Here are my notes on "The Prelude," the opening of The Appassionata. I color code my Table of Contents—the blue is what's written; the green is new since my arrival in Paris; the red is pre-Paris thoughts that still need to be addressed. The pictures support the changes. For example, the staircase besides Chopin's tomb—I like the specificity of its existence as a detail that anchors the scene in a real place. And the view from my apartment window, looking down through the elm tree, is what Tori might see.

The Prelude: Père-Lachaise
The dead are named. The cemetery described, ghosts appear. St. Genevieve walks with her lantern. (What about Saint Denis?) Genevieve finds a dying Tori wandering among the ghosts and stone monuments of Père-Lachaise. She takes Tori down the marble staircase beside Chopin’s tomb.Chopin's ghost is playing the Raindrop Prelude. Tori listens and swoons, ready to welcome death. Chopin speaks to her of death and takes her to the street where she lives—describe the street. Tori hears music—her own, a Beethoven Sonatina she learned as a child. This is the movement to Chapter One. The setting isn’t strong enough—describe Père-Lachaise, perhaps other tombs? Gericourt’s? Add Gericault and his son to the named dead. (They are both buried at Père-Lachaise. Gericault died in 1824.) Madame Lenormand is also buried there.The critique is that it doesn’t give readers enough sense of story, only atmosphere.

In Chapter One, Tori is at the piano.

Chapter One:Sonatina in G
Four-year-old Tori is sitting at the piano. Her mother is giving her a lesson. She's learning Beethoven’s Sonatina in G practicing grace notes, learning what they are. Her mother is a good teacher, dedicated and imaginative. Aristide comes in annoyed that Louise is still teaching. It’s time to go. Tori is intimidated by Aristide, but Louise is not. Once her parents head out the door, Tori rushes up the circular staircase to her nursery where she in the big carriage that has come to fetch them.n Tori is fascinated with the horses. Changed Pegasus to the French, Pégase. Need to fix window description and street/courtyard below, including the elm tree. Bette, the maid, finds Tori at the window, gets her ready for bed, and tells her a story. Is there anyway to bring more of the opening ‘voice’ into this, to have it more like Jane Eyre, where one feels the narrator reflecting from the distance of adulthood?

In Chapter Two, we see Louise and Aristide Farrenc, Tori's parents, at the opening of Victor Hugo's play, Hernani, which was performed at the Comédie Francaise—a theatre I haven't yet visited. I have incorporated my experience from the ballet, though, and what it was like to occupy a 19th century box seat there.

So. Once I worked on the Table of Contents, I felt clear about what I needed to do to make changes to my existing text. The Prelude was (and remains) the most difficult. I'm not sure, yet, that I've got what I actually want. I did introduce Gericault's ghost into The Prelude, coupling him with Delacroix. I also added the staircase which gave real-life detail to the scene. I still need more of that kind of detail. One of the things I learned from my research is the posture and character that Delacroix posed for in The Raft of the Medusa. I also learned that Delacroix did indeed have many of Gericault's paintings and drawings in his studio after Geriacualt's death. He studied them in depth. I'm going to tie the horses together. Gericault's expertise was horses. Delacroix is going to discuss horses with Liszt which is going to tie the death of the carriage horse that Tori thinks of as Pégase to Liszt, so it is a shared experience. Unless you've read the chapter about the July Revolution of 1830, this probably doesn't make sense. Suffice to say that horses are a quirky theme/thread running through the story.

I added the fortuneteller to scene in the theater and described the theater box in specific detail. That was fun and changed the way things worked. The same is true about getting the staircase right, that it's circular, not squared-off like a British staircase. Almost every staircase I've seen in Paris is circular. It changes the architecture of the building. Also, either they had a courtyard (and lived on the "ground" floor) or lived in an apartment that opened onto the street and did not live on the ground floor, but rather the first floor up. This has to do with wealth.

I've given them a courtyard, using this courtyard from the home of painter, Gustave Coubert, who is not in my book, but was a contemporary of my characters. This building is very near to where Liszt lived. It's behind a heavy wooden door that looks like it should enter into the interior of a building, but instead opens into this courtyard. Gericault's home on Rue des Martyrs is similar. I really like the way the staircase rises to the center on either side of the truck. When Tori looks down, she sees this courtyard with the addition of a big elm tree.

Once I started working, I got excited. This is what I had in mind coming here, that I would see and incorporate the visual specifics of Paris. That's only a part of what needs shifting, but it's a big piece, because without it, I have a kind of generic, more British backdrop. So. I'm writing. It's late on Friday and I've spent most of the day working, a very different kind of day.

It helps me to have done this for another reason too. Now I better understand what I'm looking for as I take my walks and go about my life, and understand the power of my photos too. So. In spite of the fact, I have no Parisian adventure to relay, I did have a very fruitful day.