[Many of us are caught in the following predicament: we have tremendous pent-up wanderlust, but we don’t feel that it’s quite safe enough to travel yet. So, let me present you with some excerpts from my book A Writer’s Paris to help slake some of that wanderlust, while at the same time providing you with lessons of values to writers and all creatives. These essays also connect to my recent book Redesign Your Mind, as they present new ways of thinking about the creative process and the writing life.]
Often quoted to make a point about American culture and character is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous line “There are no second acts in American lives.” In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. We are not done at twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty; we have not ruined our chances by not writing for a decade; we have not precluded the possibility of a second act and a second chance by making even the worst mistake. Alcoholics get sober, cowardly lions find their courage, and with each new dawn, every writer gets a second chance to write well.
Paris herself, on the brink of destruction, got a second chance. Toward the end of World War II, Hitler had his engineers mine the bridges of Paris. Explosives were placed beneath the Invalides, the Assemblé National, Notre Dame. The Eiffel Tower was rigged to topple into the Seine. All that was needed for Paris to explode was a command from the German commander in Paris, General Dietrich von Choltitz. In love with Paris, von Choltitz never gave that order.
As the Allies approached, Hitler badgered von Choltitz from Berlin. “Is Paris burning?” Hitler screamed. Von Choltitz offered up one excuse after another. An apoplectic Hitler pestered and threatened von Choltitz, who stood his shaky ground. Finally the Allies arrived to an intact Paris. Nothing could have been more appropriate than, years later, France awarding von Choltitz the Légion d’Honneur.
Often your second, third, or fourth chance only arrives because you have made a heroic decision to persevere. When an arthritic Matisse could no longer paint, he began to create cutout collages that are now world-famous. Solving the problems of how and what to create with crippled fingers was a real task, but the most important task he faced was not giving up. When your editor tells you that your sequel is not wanted because the sales of your first book do not justify the risk, you only get a second chance by courageously doing the next thing. You must convince this publisher, or find another publisher, or publish the sequel yourself, or write something different. The choices are straightforward enough. All that’s required is fortitude.
I’m reminded of this as I stroll with my acquaintances Sally and Meredith through the Jardin du Luxembourg. The day is splendid; the puppet show is crowded; the Grand Bassin is sporting its toy sailboats; the pony path is busy. The 150 palm trees and orange trees, returned from winter storage, are blissfully sunbathing, as are the 350,000 flowers that get planted or transplanted each spring. We pass Art, Time, and Glory paying their allegorical tribute to the statues of Delacroix and Saint Geneviève (the patron saint of Paris, who appears to be doing her job nicely). I’m telling Sally and Meredith the story of an unexpected second chance in my writing life.
I’d done three successful books with a publisher. I was feeling my oats and proposed an ambitious book in which I meant to attempt nothing less than a complete philosophy of life. The publisher offered me a nice advance and said Go for it! I then proceeded to make a hash of the book. A few weeks after I turned in the manuscript, I heard from my chagrined editor, who lamented that there was no way her house could publish the book. It was so far from where it needed to be that all they could do was cancel the contract.
I hated the fact that I had ruined my relationship with this publisher more than I hated that I had ruined this particular book or this particular deal. It seemed inconceivable to me that they would give me a second chance. Indeed, they passed on my next several ideas, apparently confirming my fear. But, as they hadn’t locked the door, I never stopped trying to reenter. Over the next few years I pitched them idea after idea. Then, one day, they said yes. I did a new book with them and have done three more since.
I’ve had my second chances, and for them I am grateful. Paris has had her second chances and, on this beautiful summer day, appears grateful too. Sally, who is in the class I’m teaching at the Paris Writers Workshop, turns to her partner Meredith, who has accompanied her to Paris, and says, “I’m writing my book this time.” Meredith smiles and takes her hand. Why shouldn’t Sally manage to write her book? She has made the effort to come to Paris, she has someone who loves her, and, like every writer, she has not come close to using up her chances.
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