Posts filed under 'The Written Word'
Here is one of the exercises I did at last week’s writers’ group: You are in a waiting room (doctor’s office, job interview, etc.). People are sitting more or less in a circle. Describe several of them — focussing only on their feet! Type of shoes, cleanliness and condition of shoes, toes if they show, how they let their feet rest. Are they quiet or do the feet move? What can you tell about the person from the feet?
Below is what I wrote, but please bear in mind that the writing is spontaneous and unedited and I think I was jumping from one tense to another at one stage:
I dreaded coming here today. Even as I stood outside in front of the entrance, I hesitated and almost walked away four times before adjusting my cap on my head and pushing my sunglasses back to make sure they really covered as much of my face as possible. I pulled my oversized man’s jacket closed and readjusted my thick woollen scarf around my neck. All the while knowing just how ridiculous I looked, but I didn’t care. I just didn’t want to take the chance of someone I knew being here and recognising me. Finally I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly as I opened the door, and walked in summoning up false courage from god knows where.
I scan the room quickly to find the reception desk, lower my head and move towards it to present my medicare card. The secretary is extremely discreet, she can sense my discomfort. She must see this a lot. She zaps my card and softly tells me to take a seat in the waiting room, someone will call me when it’s my turn.
With my head still lowered I move towards the closest empty seat. White and shiny Ikea bucket seats line the walls and almost all of them are taken. I still don’t dare to look up. I am curious to know if anyone else is as embarrassed as me to be here, if anyone else is as scared. My eyes scan over the feet of the people sitting here in this sterile, quiet room with me. There must be about fifteen people here and I see only two pairs of men’s shoes.
The first, scuffed, worn and dirty Converse with one of the shoelaces undone and the other loosely tied. Careless and clumsy, I guess that’s why he’s here. He looks like he’s ready to spring forward and run away as fast as he can. His left foot is resting on the floor, flat but tensed, while his right foot is held back, bent and just as tensed. He looks like a sprinter waiting for the gun to go off before the start of the race. Young and scared.
The other pair is of carefully crafted black polished leather. You could see your reflection in them if you looked down from above them, I’m sure. They look barely worn and I think this guy’s got money. Lots of it. I wonder why he doesn’t take his lady-friend to one of those private clinics. Surely he knows someone who could take care of this little problem. The feet are unmoving, calm and relaxed. I’m guessing he’s done this before, probably many times. I can’t help but dislike him intensely and I’m glad I can’t see the rest of him. I bet he’s really arrogant. And just as I start to think that, I remind myself that at least he made the effort to be here with her.
And here is a word association exercise we also did. I started with the word ‘garage’ and ended up with ‘fire’ and ’seawater’. We were limited for time so I didn’t get to write much and never actually got to the seawater, but here is what came out anyway:
The fire crackled and danced on, wild and uncontrolled. It spat and hissed, swirled and whooshed. I watched it, transfixed, unable to move an inch, uncomprehending. Suddenly my throat was thick with smoke and when I felt ash on my tongue I knew I’d been standing with my mouth agape. Was it awe or shock? I don’t know, but my need to breathe brings me back to earth and I become conscious of the deafening noise that surrounds me - beams crashing, small explosions, glass shattering from the insane heat which is stifling, and the parts of my body that are bare feel like they are roasting.
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June 13th, 2007
Ok, so as far as comebacks go, that attempt back in September was pretty lame. I’m sorry for that. It’s just that no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t bring myself to update my blog. I had a blog identity crisis. I think I’m still in said crisis, but I feel guilty enough today to actually put fingers to keyboard.
The above photo was taken a couple of weekends ago, at Remi’s aunt and uncle’s lovely house about 2 hours drive away from where we live. You should be able to see the picture full-size by right-clicking on it and selecting “display image” or some such thing (sorry, I use a French version of Windows since I replaced my hard drive, and I can’t remember how the option is worded in the English version).
Lately things have been good and bad, up and down, but this week things have been mostly good… very good even. Firstly, after a few meetings with an advisor I have decided to take the plunge and declare myself freelance - a complicated administrative process here in France, one that requires serious consideration considering the risks and fees you are faced with when you take such a plunge. So in January I should officially be a “freelance” translator, totally independent and self-reliant. YIKES!
This has meant getting motivated in several ways, doing a lot of research, developing different character traits, learning to talk about myself, promote myself, ask for help… it’s been challenging and worthwhile and the process will no doubt be long. Still, when I am not full of self-doubt I really enjoy what I do. So some people apparently aren’t clear on what I do. I translate, mainly from French to English but sometimes from English to French. I mostly work on marketing texts or trade press copy, which means I get to be more creative in my work. I get to write, I get to proofread, I get to adapt and summarize texts, sometimes I even get to re-write them… all of which I love doing. So that’s it in a nutshell, for more info you can visit my professional site at natasha-dupuy.com.
When my work appears in a magazine, I usually get sent a copy of it. This week I received the latest, and was surprised to find that practically the whole issue is made up of articles I have translated over the past few months, and they all happen to be articles that I am happy with. The issue looks great! Remi’s not allowed to touch it lest he accidentally crease a page or leave a greasy fingerprint behind 
So that’s one of the things that happened that made this week a good week. Another is that Monday I got to attend my first meeting of an English creative writing group in Toulouse. Yes! I finally found one! It was so great. We are to meet every two weeks for a couple of hours, and we even get homework to go away with so that we have something to work on in between meetings and to share and discuss at the next get-together. I’m very excited 
Another good thing: I FINALLY got through to the Spanish teacher I’ve been trying to reach for a couple of months, and so next Wednesday night I will be attending her class for the first time. Apparently I am making good progress just by attending the Spanish conversation group once a week, but that progress is not enough for me so I am looking forward to doing more work in that area.
Another good thing: Wednesday night I was invited to a friend’s reading group. A lovely bunch of people open to exploring different styles and genres, but not too intellectual and deadly serious about the whole affair, so it all ends up quite pleasant. Discussing a book over a yummy crepe… there are worse ways to spend an evening once a month or so!
And last but not least: About a year ago I had posted a message on this blog, stating that I was looking for some old childhood friends I had lost touch with after leaving New-Caledonia for Australia. In doing so, I was hoping that one or more of them would “google” themselves one day and happen upon my post. Well… it’s happened! A little while ago I was contacted by one of the people I had been searching for over the years. It’s such a nice feeling to reconnect with your past and with people who really marked your life in a big way. We exchanged a few emails and photos, and a couple of days ago she called me on the phone. It was so great to hear her voice. Fate would have it that she left New-Caledonia last April and is now living in… France!
About 1.5 hours drive away from Lyon, which is where we will be spending Christmas again this year! So she has invited Remi and me to stay for a couple of days while we are up that way. I will get to see her again, catch up on all those years, and meet her fiancé!
So today, right on cue to remind me that life is not all pleasure and happy tidings, I am having a flare-up that has left me unable to work all day. I also found out my latest text is to be finished to a really tight deadline which will have me working through the weekend… oh well, you know how the ol’ song goes “you take the good, you take the bad, you take ‘em both and there you have… the facts of life”
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December 1st, 2006
Lately I’ve felt the unshakable urge to read. It’s been a while since I read a book and honestly the books I got into reading before I left Sydney were hardly literature. ChickLit is a good chuckle but it won’t inspire you to great heights. Then I tried to read Portrait in Sepia by Isabel Allende but found her writing no longer fits me, so I didn’t finish the book. You could never compare something like “Daughter of Fortune” with “Eva Luna”, impossible. Maybe she has lost her passionate rawness and became too formulaic. Since she was always one of my favourite authors I persisted and tried to read her autobiography entitled “My Invented Country”. Though I learnt quite a bit about Chile, I didn’t finish that one either. Remi’s mother read them both while she was here and she really enjoyed them but then she hasn’t read any of her other stuff so the bar wasn’t set too high.
I went into a bookshop today, half looking for Bill Bryson’s “In a Sunburned Country” (in Australia it’s called “Down Under” and I urge everyone to read it. In fact if you’re curious about the world at all, I recommend any of his books. He is very witty and warm in his accounts) and half looking for anything else that might catch my eye. I ended up with a copy of “Love” by Toni Morrison. This woman is an amazing writer. I guess I’m not the first to think so since she has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (*sigh* Pick me! Pick me!). Seriously. I picked up the book in need of some sweet medicine and boy am I getting it. So it’s true, I seem to have a penchant for South American and African American writers, but these people write from the ground in. They have two feet planted firmly on the ground and their head is swimming with the angels. That’s the stuff of inspiration. That’s the stuff that saves lives and minds and hearts. That’s what I’m talking about.
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May 19th, 2005
This is very funny. I was going through some old writing (and cringing) and found this little gem which is *particularly* cringe-worthy. So much so that I had to share it at the risk of completely humiliating myself. This was written when I was 14, a few months after I arrived back in Australia. I think it was supposed to be an entry for the Sydney Morning Herald young writers competition, however it never made it past the first draft and you will see why. No wonder my English teacher couldn’t stand me!! Here goes>>>
First draft - 27/08/88
Ben had lived in Noumea for nine years and that’s where the most important events of his life happened. When his mother left his father after he threatened to kill her, Ben was eight years old but still old enough to realize that his family was falling to pieces. Because none of his friends would understand his feelings as none of them had experienced such a thing, Ben found himself withdrawing from them. He stayed out on the beach every afternoon after school instead of going home to face his mother’s constant nagging. If someone approached him he would not carry on the conversation but just answer the questions with a simple “yes” or “no”. Everyone at school liked him though because they still remembered the happy boy Ben used to be. This was when Ben started biting his nails.
As time passed Ben forgot about the terrible fights that his parents had, and the separation. About a year later he got hit by a car. Not a serious accident though, enough to scare him for the rest of his life.
Then he got to high school and met David whom he considered as his best friend and treated like a brother. They were the closest of friends and everyone liked them. They did everything together. Ben was 10 years old and in year 7 at this stage. But then his mother got sick and people were fighting for independence. So Ben had to leave the country. He moved to Australia and because he missed David heaps he shot himself.
THE END
>>>> What was I on?????
You know actually I recall my teacher saying to me “I believe that a lot of what you have written in here has really happened to you and that you are Ben”. DUH!! But just as i re-read that now, wouldn’t that last line have raised alarm bells with a normal adult?? Shouldn’t she have talked to me about counselling or something??? Anyway, I just thought of that so that kinda took away a bit of the funniness.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so poorly written in my whole life hahahaha
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February 15th, 2004
Words have been calling out to me lately. I’m feeling them close but not close enough and I miss them. I miss the sound and taste of them. I miss pairing them up, folding them into each other to make sentences, to give voice to the heart and a home to my spirit.
People have been approaching me about my writing of late. Some because of the website I’m currently building, others … others, well I’m not sure why. Perhaps like me they feel a quickening; the wind is picking up to carry me on my way. And yet I feel as though there are things that I must do before I set off… things that I must see.
In the introduction to Postcards I muse about how I started to write. Now I find myself examining how or where I stopped, that I might see my way again through the veils around my heart. It’s not a tricky question, if I let myself go back there I know exactly when it happened. I even know why it happened, and that to me is perhaps the scariest of all. I was broken and I didn’t know how to fix myself. I didn’t know how to hold on tight to that belief that love conquers all and that it is enough to love without needing to hold it tightly in my fist. I still don’t know. I would like to believe there is a love that can stay, a love that could melt into me and be free. But I didn’t know how to love and that was my shame. I didn’t know how to BE in the face of love… and I guess neither did he.
So I know when I stopped writing. When I couldn’t bear to look into the reflection of my own eyes let alone my soul. When I had failed at the one thing I thought I would be best at. When I discovered I wasn’t as loyal as I thought and that loneliness makes us cowardly… it’s possible to be the loneliest of all with the person we love the most.
I broke apart and fell to pieces and really I had thought I’d got myself back together. I knew I was changed, but I didn’t know just how much. But I should have known, because I couldn’t write about it. That’s how I should have known. So I think this is the first tentative step.
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February 2nd, 2004