It should come as no surprise that I adore Paris. There’s something about the architecture, the history, the river. It’s one of those alive cities, where every arrondissement has a spirit all its own. The events of this past week had me thinking, in particular, of the years Paris spent occupied by Nazi Germany. I saw the Germans marching in support – after all there were many Germans in Paris that night – and thought of the Père Lachaise. The cemetery is filled with monuments to the dead of World War II, particularly those Jews who were sent from the city to the concentration camps.
Paris has survived that, and it will survive this. Like London, it is ancient and eternal. Parisians love life too much to let this change things. I admire them enormously for that.
Anyway. I love Paris, and the entire event rather cut me short in my writing. What really tripped me up is that I have a revolutionary cadre, and they have plans for big, messy activities to call attention to the plight of the underclasses. Which is fine in the context of the novel, but not fine when some big violent terrorism has happened overseas and suddenly all the guns and bombs seem even more awful than they did before. Even considering my protagonist wants to stop this for fear of what it might incite, I did feel the need to take a good couple of days off writing. Now I’m three thousand words behind, (oh woe is me,) and the gnawing mad-eyed must write must write must write so familiar to so many Wrimos is beginning to set in. I can see into the future: soon I will be laughing maniacally as I throw all semblance of plot and characterisation out the window in the desperate crusade to reach my word count.
It still feels so petty given everything so large and bloody, Paris and elsewhere.
I’ve been more active on ello, which is nice. I had high hopes for the place back when they launched, but honestly I think they hit their viral moment far too early. They were missing too much functionality, and everyone left before it really came into its own. It’s quite good now, though they still don’t have an android app. I popped in there recently to write a little about NaNo, and got some replies. One account asked me to post an excerpt. I did, and I’ll repeat it here. With the sorrow of the last week, it feels just a little bit appropriate.
Sometimes, when lying and looking up at the ceiling swallowed by darkness, one could almost see swirling images up there in the black. Eyes focused beyond on something they could not see, cut short by night. Shapes dancing just beyond recognition. It underscored, somehow, the impossible loneliness of existing. More so than the stars. The stars – the infinite expanse of space – were cold and terrifying and beautiful and reassuring all at once. The lost blackness of an unseen ceiling, while one lay in the dark and waited for sleep… that was lonely. Even with someone beside you, it was lonely.