I went to ridiculous lengths in my convincing cover letter trying to paint a picture of why Paris should be the right destination for my residency, remaining totally opaque about the real reason. The thing is, last night I couldn’t sleep from excitement because I watched Céline and Julie Go Boating and Full Moon in Paris back to back, and ideas for stories were pouring out of me…
Needless to say, my email never actually “found them well,” because I never sent it out. It was unnerving when I accidentally read up on the sole residency winners of the past five years. Their names and full biographical records were neatly posted on the website, and without exception, a stark pattern emerged. It left me feeling so exposed that I closed the 17 open tabs on my browser. All the previous residents were already established, published writers, good or bad, with a book under their belts, a column to write, panels to attend, and all in their late 30s.
My defense mechanism instantly questioned my motives: do you even need to be on a residency right now? I’ve spent so much time locked away just writing my novel that I feel a desperate need to write from a new place (mentally and physically). And if that place is anywhere, I wish it were the Paris that lives in my mind, not the real Paris I’ve already been to.
But do you really need a residency after all? Or do you just need a real adventure?
Yes, that, and several pairs of Repetto Camille shoes, starting with the butter yellow, and then every other color.