An American Writer in Paris

by Grace Andreacchi

Things are different in Paris. The food is exquisite, the apartment buildings, even in the slums, are high, elegant and decorated like wedding cakes, the light is pale lavender all day long, and writers are, quite simply, gods. It makes no difference if you’re published or unpublished, famous or totally unknown, just to be a writer is to be a god. To one accustomed to the usual American response to the shy and unwilling revelation, ‘I’m a writer’, the French response is nothing short of astonishing. People take a step back, overcome with admiration. People say things like, ‘A writer, c’est formidable!’ (They really talk this way in France.) People do not tell you they’re planning to write a novel soon themselves, or their cousin’s written a novel and can you help get it published, or they know this really great story that happened to a friend of theirs and they could write a novel about it but really haven’t got the time, would you like to hear it and then maybe you can use it for your next book? No, you will never hear any of these things cross the rapid-fire lips of the French. People respect you. It’s unaccustomed, and heady stuff.

When I first moved into my apartment on the rue Montcalm in Montmarte I was stopped on the stairs by a curious-looking little man in a state of great agitation. ‘Madame,’ he began, pulling nervously at his hairnet. ‘You walk around the whole night long. You are rolling a ball about in the night, just above my head! Madame, it is impossible for me to sleep!’ I thought for a minute and realised the ‘ball’ he was hearing must be the wheels under my chair. I apologised profusely and explained about the chair, explained that I was a writer and kept strange hours, but would be most careful to walk on tiptoe and not to move the chair. But the little man was no longer interested in his sleep problems – I was a writer! That was something completely different! God forbid his petty complaints should interfere with the functioning of the muse! Could I tell him about my books?

I was turned down in both London and New York for a bank account – not enough reliable income. But in Paris when I asked for a bank account the branch manager asked me shyly for an autographed copy of my latest novel. When I was obliged to seek help from the gendarmerie over a lost passport, the Capitaine showed up in person at my door – I thought he’d come to arrest me on charges unknown, but he’d come with a bottle of Bordeaux grand cru, to chat about literature. ‘It’s always been my dream to talk to a writer,’ he confided. ‘I love watching them on the télé.’ Like I said, things are different. The only problem is, it can go to your head like champagne.

Grace Andreacchi was born and raised in New York City but has lived on the far side of the great ocean for many years – sometimes in Paris, sometimes Berlin, and nowadays in London. Works include the novels Give my Heart Ease, which received the New American Writing Award, and Music for Glass Orchestra, and the play Vegetable Medley (New York and Boston). Stories and poetry appear in both on-line and print journals.Her work can be viewed at http://graceandreacchi.com.