An author once told me that if I want to be a writer, I need to write what I know, and to write something that I would love to read.
Well, I know Paris, and I know books. And reading about either of those things would definitely soothe my soul. And I know myself pretty well, also…
And so, I have begun to write a short story. I’m going to share the first chapter, here (please note, it has not been proofread or edited, and my novella – of sorts – doesn’t even have a name, yet):
There was nothing too exceptional about her. She was pretty, sure, but she wasn’t one to turn heads in a room. There was no doubt that she was an intelligent woman, but her strengths resided in her writing rather than her verbal skills. And she was rather friendly, someone who fit easily into a crowd, but anyone who knew her well enough understood her to be an introvert who got really uncomfortable if that façade went on for too long. Overall, she was pretty plain, apart from her name; her name was Nives.
Nives felt most at home in a comfortable chair with a warm drink (preferably a coffee with just a little milk) and a good book. Books felt like family to her; they took up the most space in her house, usually creating quite a clutter, and lending them out to people always made her a little sick to her stomach. Being witness to someone who would fold back the covers of their books, or ever allow their novels to be in anything but pristine condition, always seemed like abuse to her. How could one treat an object that opens up so many worlds, which reaches into the depths of a person, with anything but the upmost respect? The idea was beyond her.
Then again, many ideas were beyond this odd, plain woman. Why would anyone need to get married in this day and age? Why would anyone choose to reproduce, for anything other than selfish reasons? Why is feminism such a difficult concept to comprehend? Why do people eat meat? Why are there animals who are homeless, in this world? Do people not realize that the solution to every problem is: coffee and a good book? These questions and many like them often plagued her. That is, until she was alone with coffee and a good book.
But there was one question, one idea, that never seemed to leave her mind, no matter how much she tried to distract herself from it with her personal escape; that a city like Paris exists, and that anyone would choose to live anywhere other than Paris, France.
Thoughts? Please let me know in the comments!