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Aspirations of a Creative Woman in France

by Jane Shortall

With the intention of calming the mind, refreshing the body and communicating with the spirit (how lofty were my thoughts!) in a great effort to produce the first draft of the first chapter of my dream publication, a book on living in France, I planned a day for ME. (The reason for these screaming capital letters will become obvious.)
 
The idea was to start slowly with a typical French breakfast. Then, during the morning, read through all my notes, write everything out in longhand, thereby getting a feel for how the words were coming together. I had a sort of diary to work from, notes from the very first day arrived had in France on our adventure.
 
I was ready to begin a new phase of life, ready to begin the work that would surely, in time, be chosen as book of the month on Oprah. Then, why, Hollywood producers would furiously outbid each other for the right to make the movie.
 
Southern France then, woman in kitchen, shutters thrown back, long, elegant open window bringing light and heat into the house, creating a golden glow and a feeling of well-being. Coffee in special yellow mug, warm buttery croissant on white plate and a dish of luscious bright red strawberry conserve – a homemade gift from a neighbour (already!) - to be enjoyed.
 
My old life, back in the world of the nine-to-five, with its constant interruptions, seemed like looking back to another planet. Today there was nothing to do except get about 3,000 words down on paper, and later, give myself a body overhaul, a kind of do-it-yourself beauty therapy session.
 
Pen poised over notebook, I looked around and knew for the thousandth time that I had found the place for me. The garden; were ever two cherry trees so laden down with fruit? Must write a proper description of them. Why not a sketch, I used to draw well? Too difficult to think of going back to painting just now, I’m busy breathing it all in and ready to seriously begin work on putting together Chapter One of this new magical life.
 
‘Can you hand me out my special gardening knife’ said a voice behind me at the window. ‘It’s in the top drawer there, I think?’
 
I jumped, lost my train of thought, got up, left down coffee and pen, and rooted in one of the kitchen drawers. I eventually found the special garden knife and passed it out the window. Vaguely thought that a kitchen drawer is perhaps one place that could surely do without bits of earth from the garden mixed in with cooking items? Down on the ground floor, we have a huge cave for storage and in the garden, surely a place could be found for such implements. Said nothing at that point. Sat back down, picked up pen and wrote ‘How it all Began’ at the top of the page.
 
‘You know those tough gardening gloves I bought a few weeks ago? I know I left them somewhere in the bedroom, I think on top of the chest of drawers? Would you pass them out to me?’
 
I went to look.
 
No immediate sign of gloves. No immediate sign of the top of the chest of drawers either, as it was completely covered with items. Sitting on top was a hideous red baseball cap, bearing the legend ‘Port of Amsterdam‘. It lay on a pile of books, lurching sideways against each other like a huge row of falling dominoes. Three pairs of black socks rolled into balls, a large silver and yellow metal tape measure, a huge, thick brown shoe lace, an antique, rather stylish man’s dark wood clothes brush, a fat, hard back notebook grandly entitled ‘Wine Notes’ and a blue shiny box of Mosquito bombs jostled for space.
 
Lying back against the fallen books, and looking entirely appropriate in that position, was a framed photograph of three happy, red faced, smiling men, arms around each other‘s shoulders, their glazed looks signifying that without question the picture of the three heroes had been taken at the revels following a rugby match years ago.
 
A man who believes in ‘a place for everything and everything in its place’ uses this chest of drawers. Eventually I spotted what looked like the fingers of the special gloves sticking out from under the socks, but they were trapped by the books, half of which tumbled to the floor as I pulled the gloves out. It goes without saying that one hardback fell directly on my toe.
 
‘Found them!’ I shouted and headed back into the kitchen, but as I handed them out the window, I noticed a rather impatient look. Never mind, everything was, or would be soon, rosy in the garden, thanks to my hero who was out there, eh, working.
 
My thoughts had strayed completely away from what I was supposed to be doing, and not for the first time I felt that what I chose to do with some of my time was considered to be ‘nothing‘. Why could I not have a day to do what I wanted to do? As I considered this, the voice at the window spoke again.
 
This time, in extremely exasperated tones, almost suggesting that some phantom was busy hiding everything he needed, it shouted in -
‘Do you know where that really good disinfectant is? The strong one we bought in the very beginning, you know, for using under the stone steps, where the wild cats pee. I’m sure I left it out here…’
 
‘No, I haven’t seen that for ages’ I said back, as casually as I could, clutching my blue pen with a white knuckled hand.
 
‘Well look, since you’re actually in there, not really doing anything, could you just look under the sink and see if there’s any left? The smell up there is absolutely foul.’
 
Larry, love of my life, fast becoming an expert gardener – and indeed one who might hopefully start gardening any minute – carried on talking, showing no sign of being in any way sorry for all these interruptions, telling me how important it was that he have the stuff straight away, exactly where he was going to use it and how much better our lives would be, when he did whatever it was he was going to do, under our foul smelling steps.
 
I gave in. Getting down on my hands and knees in order to properly see into the press under the sink, where so many things had now found a home, I began rooting and various things tumbled out, some onto the kitchen floor and some rolled back into the dark recesses of that little known, mysterious place.
 
‘Any luck?’ said a voice at the window, a voice with just the slightest trace of ‘can you hurry it up there?’ in it.
 
‘Hold on’ said the woman on the floor.
 
I knocked over a big yellow plastic bottle. The top was loose and stuff poured out. It was for cleaning drains. My eyes began to water. I coughed at the strength of it. A sigh from outside the window.
 
‘I can’t see any disinfectant.’ I gasped between coughs. ‘Some drain stuff has spilled, it’s really strong. Wait, there’s another big bottle right at the back. It might be your stuff -’
 
‘Oh don’t worry about it. Forget it. I remember now that I used it all up. I’ll get some more in town later this afternoon.’
 
Then the sound of a man going back up the steps to the main garden. From the depths of the press under the sink came the sound of obscene language.
 
Lunch was a solitary affair, not the idyllic, relaxing hour in the sunny garden I had imagined. A little of the joy had gone out of the day. However, I am a tough bird and I did eventually get the bones of what I wanted to down on paper. Then, when satisfied with that work (yes, I always think of it as my work, even though it’s not swelling the bank balance) much later than planned, I took over our small bathroom to begin the second phase of my day.
 
Basics first. Wearing only a little blue and white ‘bonnet de douche‘, surely the least sexy shower cap in the world - a thing to be worn only when alone in a locked room - I applied the hair removal stuff.
 
From the grunts and groans outside the window, I gathered that all was not going well up there. I closed it almost over. A moment later, the bathroom door was thrown open,
 
‘I can’t find the new trowel I bought only last week! I left it on a shelf somewhere – either in here, or on one of the bookshelves outside. Have you seen it? Did you move it?’
 
He continued about the missing object in exasperated tones, moving around the bathroom and lifting things up, setting them down again, not seeming to notice me.
 
I shrieked, loudly.
 
‘This is not fair! I said I was going to use this room for part of the afternoon. I particularly asked if you would leave it to me for a few hours. No interruptions!
 
Wounded look.
 
‘I’m only looking for my trowel. What’s wrong with that? It will only take you two seconds to answer. I am really trying to get some work done outside today.‘
 
We looked at each other.
 
‘This bloody day is going nowhere’ he said to the ceiling, and marched out of the room leaving the door wide open. The draught caused the window to blow fully open, it hit against some of beauty products, sending them flying. Just as I was bending down to pick things up he spoke behind me at the window.
 
‘It’s ok; don't worry about the trowel‘ in martyred tones. ‘You carry on with whatever it is you are doing. I’ll make a start on tidying up out here. There‘s a lot to do…‘
 
Ah yes, all that most important, strong persons, men’s outdoor work. Yet it had been necessary for me to rootle about, find endless items, or remind him where he had left various tools all bloody day.
 
When Virginia talked of A Room of One’s Own, she obviously imagined that when we were in it, no one would come and disturb us, and then we women might get some work done too.
 
That we, in our rooms, just like the male authors, poets, painters and sculptors since time began, might be seen as producing something of worth, that interruptions to our work were not only unfair, but outrageous. And here, for me, is the nub of the problem. The word ’work’ for so many people, means whatever someone or some organisation paid you between leaving school and retiring. Creativity is simply not acknowledged as work; it has no worth. 
 
Leaving one lifestyle - the life of full-time paid work for instance - and opting for another life abroad, can be, indeed should be, a huge adventure. I saw it, welcomed it as a fabulous second phase, a chance to tap into springs that had been closed off for years. To re-discover those elements which had lain dormant while the business life roared ahead. Nirvana awaited me.
 
But when, for the other part of the couple, the creative world is seen as a place of absolute weirdness, because of no immediate financial return, life can be very, very difficult indeed for the one who sees so much more ahead, who is reaching out for another life, while using the experiences gained in first half. 
 
A sense of humour is good, and I have one. But it’s not enough to carry me through, when the point of what I am doing is completely missed by the person who shares my life, but does not understand so much of it.
 
However, all is not lost. One of the glorious things about this wild and wonderful area of southwest France is that it is full of people who create, and it is they who have supported me on a daily basis. A wonderful and positive Irish woman friend sent me a CD of the poet David Whyte (unknown to me). It is life changing and she will be high on my list of best supporters as I sit and chat with Oprah about life’s ‘Second Phase’
 
Seriously, I never did get the book on French living onto the shelves; unfortunately, three Literary Agents I spoke to advised against it, as the market is now saturated. Was I too late? Even so, I have a groaning shelf here of published articles, a few of which earned decent fees, and I have begun work on a number of other projects, unrelated to French living.
 
Writing is never a chore to me. I know I am privileged to be able to sit here and do it, interruptions or not…but, if I should suddenly find myself the beneficiary of some long lost Uncle's will from Nova Scotia (they do exist) there's a house I know just waiting for me, and only me, to hold the key.

___________________________________________________
 

Jane Shortall was born in Ireland and now lives in a hameau of just five dwellings in a remote part of the South of France, close to the Pyrenees.   She has had various careers, including the Aerospace business - tough but lucrative and, nearer to her heart, some years with the Equestrian Federation of Ireland.

Interests: writing, food & wine, reading, fashion and art, music, nature, horses. Loves travelling and spends a few months each year touring, mostly in Europe.

See her blogspot at

jane-pyreneestoparis.blogspot.com/

 

© 2009 Jane Shortall