It was January 2022. Cozy sweather, cold weather, rain on the window pane from time to time, as your classic winter always accustoms you. Although I consider myself a "summer person" down to the core, I utterly adore a good rainy day from time to time. Rain gives you this fresh, cleansing energy, that fills you with this overall feeling of calmness and relaxation, and invites you to stay in. To read, to rest, to meditate, to listen to your music, to catch up with your Netflix routine, to get inspired, to do whatever it is that makes you feel at ease while you enjoy the storm. In my case, for whatever reason, sometimes it gets me pretty nostalgic and, to some degree, a bit introspective as well.
One of these rainy days, I was going through a scrapbook that was gathering dust inside my closet and revisiting some old memories. From Paris. I had been living there for a couple of months, four or five years ago, studying Communication with pinches of Cinema at Université Sorbonne Nouvelle - Paris 3. Oh boy, those months were intense. For all the good and for all the bad reasons. There were good and bad people along the way, good and bad experiences, storms and bonanza all along the Seine, but I'm forever grateful for what the city of lights gave me. Quoting Rick from Casablanca, and also a friend of mine that used to say exactly the same thing: "We'll always have Paris".
But one memory from that scrapbook captured my attention in that instant. There was this bookshop near the Notre-Dame that I used to go to...it was called Shakespeare and Company ("was" and "is", I believe, as, contrarily to the cathedral, the bookshop did pretty well, I think).
Shakespeare and Company, I must say, is the most magical bookshop I have ever been to. For that, each time I entered that place, something strange, peculiar or fascinating was happening.
First, there was Aggie, the cat. Aggie was, by far, the most respected resident in the bookshop (and also the furriest, as far as I know), but sometimes she didn't have that much patience for tourists. We understand, Aggie. When she met me, however, she really liked me for some reason: she purred at me and even decided to keep me company for a while, while I was exploring the place and its endless books. But Aggie, well...she was a bit bipolar. And when I returned to the bookshop another day, and immediately went to look for her, she scratched me and ripped off a piece of skin from my hand. It's okay, Aggie, I forgive you - I have days like that as well.
Then, there was the slam poetry session. I was wandering through Shakespeare and Company's several rooms, as per usual, when I noticed one discreet corner, a tiny room whose entrance was blocked by an old armchair, where a charismatic old lady was hosting a slam poetry session surrounded by several fascinated youngsters of multiple nationalities. Also, there must have been a time machine hidden somewhere because, while I was watching the session from the outside, I was approached by a guy that looked EXACTLY like Oscar Wilde, who started discussing literature and poetry with me. Clearly, French wine hits you differently.
And then, there was this girl. Once again, I was wandering around in the bookshop - this time, looking for a copy of Animal Farm, by Orwell, illustrated by Shepard Fairey, which I had seen another day - when I saw this girl going through the various rooms in an unusual rush, moving around suspiciously. It caught my attention, of course, but at first I just kept looking for the book. But then, I snapped out of it and decided to try to understand what the hell she was doing. I went back to the last room I had seen her in, but as I was entering it, she passed me by really quick and disappeared without a trace. "What the hell...?", I thought.
But then, I looked down. And, on a table leaned against the wall, I found a card. It was a simple white card, with big black letters, where one could read: "SUBMIT YOUR STORY: No Rules. No Names. Never Stop Writing".
I have to say that at this point, I was pretty pissed with writing. I had been pissed with writing for several years, I guess. I was utterly done with it, even those rare times I actually grabbed a paper and spontaneously tried to put something there it just wasn't the same - even though ages ago it had been one of my favorite things to do in this life. But then, life happened. I lost some of the people that I loved the most in my family and, at a certain point, I was so overwhelmed with grief and sadness and anger that I just started hating everything I did. I hadn't written anything - for real - since then.
But those words did make me freeze for a while.
I turned the card around. On its back, one could read: "LITERATE SUNDAY. New Authors. New Stories. All Anonymous. To Receive A Weekly Anonymous Short Story Send An Email To: LiterateSunday@gmail.com". Of course, as soon as I arrived my rented room near the Square du Vert-Galant, in a street filled with pâtisseries and boucheries and cafés, the first thing I did was sending that email.
And just like that, I started receiving an anonymous short story, coming from wherever in this big world, in my inbox...every single Sunday. And, for some time, reading these short stories was routine. Every Sunday. (Pause to say: To whoever created Literate Sunday, I take my hat off to you.)
This memory took me away for a couple of minutes. But the action it preceded wasn't immediate. These things take time (we all know they do). These things only happen fast in cinema, and as much as I love cinema, it is no match for real life.
I was watching Neil Gaiman's masterclass on the art of storytelling, at home, and he used a term that I found rather funny, but equally accurate, to define the set of influences where writers get their inspiration from: "compost heap", he called it. In Gaiman's words: "Everything you read, things that you write, things that you listen to, people you encounter, all go on the compost heap, and will rot down, and produce beautiful stories".
In other words, Neil Gaiman means that influences and inspiration are everywhere. We take them in - sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously - they take their time to blend, to transform, to bloom and, in the end...beautiful stories come out of it.
As I was stating before, these things take time. And for me, it wasn't immediate either. Maybe I needed another push...and that particular masterclass, by the storytelling sensei Neil Gaiman, author of Stardust, one of my favorite stories from my childhood, acquired in a sort of an awkward situation, and watched just in the right time was that push. Neil's extremely useful insight, tips and inspiration really made an impact and lit an urge to write in me that had been dead for quite a while.
After that...I got a piece of paper. I grabbed a pen. I started writing some drafts. And, slowly, in a messy, disorganized and as chaotic as possible way...Lyra : Story Seekers started coming to life. Trust me: at first, it wasn't meant to be anything like this. At first, the idea was also messy, disorganized and as chaotic as possible. But since the very first day, that card I found in Shakespeare and Company gave the motto to whatever it was that I was building: what if I disperse a story and its characters through several different bookshops?
If Lyra : Story Seekers ever had a factual start, it was there. In Paris. In a rather strange bookshop.
To the girl in the bookshop: thank you. I guess I never stopped writing after all.
Comments