Living Out Loud

By Vicki Geraghty, Ruth Morgan and Kathryn Kaye Spence

Three women, strangers, set out for a writers' course in Paris.

Ruth: 'To ponder a pestering dilemma through writing: Is it possible to enjoy a personal relationship at this stage of life, or will I devote my country life to tending my French garden, reading and writing? Wha

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Rue Berger Writers
• Release date: Dec 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922954091

Vicki Geraghty

Vicki Geraghty began her writing life as a journalist with fashion trade press. She has moonlighted in various government roles and as a counsellor. Now with her husband Geoff she owns and operates a boutique hotel, an Australian Fawlty Towers in the Blue Mountains. Travel and talking are her favourite pastimes.

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Ruth

January 2020, Coolamon

Dear Vicki and Kaye,

Greetings from Coolamon! Remember our last day in Paris when we made all sorts of promises to keep in touch after we returned to Australia? Here I am, emailing you, honouring our promise. I dread the day our Paris adventure merges with other travel memories because there seems something quite unique about our time together. Perhaps exchanging emails will keep our adventure alive? From the vantage point of January 2020, a few months after our return to Australia, I’m relying on hundreds of photos taken through September and October 2019, including the few weeks of our writing course. I display these photos as a rolling screensaver on a digital frame in the kitchen. The photos, together with perfume, scarves, my beautiful fountain pen and a few other souvenirs help to ensure that ‘There’s always something there to remind me …’ Do you remember Dionne Warwick’s version of that song?

It seems so long since I arrived in Paris early one Friday morning, knowing the car I’d arranged to collect me on my arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport wouldn’t be waiting. It never is. France’s main airport is the one place in France that never fails to confuse and worry this otherwise unflappable traveller. I always end up in a taxi, a mode of transport I detest because of the pressure I feel to chat with the driver. This clearly imaginary pressure is a mystery to me. I don’t feel compelled to fill silence with words in any other context.

After the hour’s taxi chat into Paris, I checked into the Marriott rue St Jacques Hotel at 17 Bd Saint-Jacques, a supposedly four-star hotel on the Left Bank close to Montparnasse where I usually stay for at least the first few days of a visit to France. Quickly unpacking my suitcase, I took a taxi to the Boulevard Hausmann to research current fashion. What might Parisian women my age be wearing in autumn 2019? Have I somehow – quite accidentally – maintained my usual two years behind Parisian fashion? I’m not bothered if it’s longer. Or am I? I like Parisian style, especially for women of our age for whom it is natural to dress with elegant seductiveness in mind. Parisian fashion seems to take a few years to emerge onto the Australian clothing market. I sometimes wonder if it’s been adapted just enough to lose a touch of that elegant seductiveness. Or is it the light? Might this explain why beige feels so right in Paris and so elderly in Australia?

I felt all the terror and joy of hours at David Mallett’s Notre-Dame des Victories salon treating my Riverina bob to a proper haircut and colour the following day. David’s Australian. All his staff are French in the way only French hairdressers can be – completely engrossed in plying their art – so very far from merely ‘doing’ hair. This is a good thing, no pressure to chat. David was exhausted by the demands of coiffing hair for Paris Fashion Week and splitting his workweek between Paris and New York, yet he managed to maintain amusing conversations with all the clients and staff in the salon.

That evening, feeling much more composed and at ease than when I’d arrived, I joined my Country Roads of France tour companions for dinner before embarking on a surprisingly lovely two-week coach tour. For years I’ve scoffed at the idea of joining a coach tour, being shunted from church to church, making small talk with long talkers. Yet it’s such a relief not to worry about galloping along long European platforms to hurl oneself into a train that pulls out of the station only minutes after arriving. And someone else has the worry of lugging suitcases up hills and over cobblestones to rustic hotels. As I’m sure you know, many of the loveliest hotels are perched high on a hill at the end of a not very long but harrowingly narrow, single-lane, tightly cornered track. Mon Dieu!

The tour was truly wonderful. Troyes, Chablis, Dijon, Chamonix, Annecy, Chambéry, Nice, Avignon, St Paul de Vence, Carcassonne, Albi, Rocamadour, Sarlat-la-Canéda, the Dordogne Valley, Paris. My daughters commented on a photo taken by a fellow tourist in Chablis as I enjoyed champagne for morning tea. ‘You look so happy, Mum,’ they said. These are conditions designed to evoke happiness in the weariest of souls. Relaying this story to you takes me back to Chablis … bringing these adventures back to life in my imagination!

Ruth Chablis France, October 2019

At the end of the tour, I ambled around Paris for a few days, then found my way to the Citadines apartments, and to the apartment allocated to me for the duration of our memoir writing course. Although I’d travelled extensively throughout my life, as I walked into the apartment, I knew that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity – a time to read and write in Paris. And, of course, to continue to ponder a pestering dilemma: when I return to Australia, will I give dating one last try? There must be someone out there who might appreciate getting to know a woman who chooses to find time for her interests while also continuing in full-time employment. Will I be ‘giving up’ if I decide tending to my French garden, reading and writing are enough, at this age?

Although the Citadines apartments were modern and rather uninspiring, I was filled with happiness as I rolled my case through the front door. I was a writer in Paris for a few weeks, an audacious thought! In retrospect, perhaps it was this attribution rather than any inherent loveliness that filled me with happiness as I entered that door. My writing room windows gave me an expansive view of the extraordinarily ugly rooftop of Paris Westfield next door to the Citadines. Looking beyond that dreadful blot on the landscape, I glimpsed a charming view of rooftops in the direction of the Louvre. Admittedly, I made a quick visit to Westfield to buy a small Bluetooth speaker to broadcast music to my apartment from my mobile phone. I’d become reliant on technology and was astonished to see the lack of it in the heart of Paris. Nevertheless, the speaker was adequate and gave me many happy hours of enjoyment. A room of one’s own, pen, paper and music – a wonderful feeling!

May we be old-fashioned and call our emails letters? I’ve such fond memories of receiving weekly letters from my mother, from the time I went to boarding school until my thirties. The challenge for me will be to write so that I’ve something to exchange!

My organisation expects staff to take two weeks of our annual leave over Christmas and, while I’d much rather take my leave in autumn or spring, being free of an intolerable workplace bullying situation for a few weeks has been very welcome.

I aim to spend the holidays reading and perhaps writing. I’m not sure how a person living on her own can find so little time to set pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Writing helps me find clarity about the more important aspects of my life, to be visible (even if just to myself), ‘to wake up and grow and belong’.¹ Yet it can be the thing I avoid more than anything else, last on the to-do list, after weeding burrs. I’ve often warned others about the predictable listlessness that can descend when one sets out to do the very thing one enjoys beyond all else. Joan Didion writes ‘entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see, and what it means. What I want and what I fear.’² High stakes indeed.

I’m pondering the possibility of returning to France for a month – perhaps October 2020. I’m imagining a house in a village, perhaps in the Dordogne. In my mind’s eye I see writing in the mornings, walking in the afternoons, relaxed dinners with perhaps discussion of a book or article or whatever in the evening. With wine.

If you feel attracted to the idea, perhaps we can discuss this at some stage. As I left France, I imagined 2019 might be my last trip to France. I’m not sure now. I’ve read a lot of literature about place and identity to try to understand my attraction to a country with which I have no connection other than feeling the loveliness of it.

Gerard Manley Hopkins’ friend Dixon wrote to Hopkins asking if he found the Jesuit seminary in Wales tough going. Hopkins replied, ‘this life here though it is hard is God’s will for me as I most intimately know, which is more than violets knee-deep’.³ I love Hopkins’ way of speaking from the senses, I know exactly what he means. Being in nature seems to return me to my centre: a place I’ve chosen to be and where I feel such calm and confidence. Being in nature in France is my idea of heaven.

I’ve just read that when Joan Didion was confronted with writer’s block, instead of hacking and hammering away at a piece, she would put her draft into a plastic bag, in the freezer, until she was ready to continue writing. Reminds me of chilling silk shirts before ironing, though I can’t imagine too many wrinkles in Joan’s writing.

Lovely to think we can stay in touch,

Warmly,

Ruth

Kaye

January 2020, Newtown

Chères amies, Ruth and Vicki,

Happy New Year! I like the idea of sharing letters. They create a freedom of expression rarely expressed when facing someone across a table or sitting together on a sofa. We can learn more about each other. I’m sure there will be plenty to write about. Remember, we did a memoir writing course, so all those past stories together with ideas about our current exploits will surely surface. Let’s hope so.

This year certainly started in a blaze, so to speak. I hope neither of you were affected by the fires – they seem to be everywhere. Living in Australia is a challenge, and yet ‘For flood and fire and famine, She pays us back threefold.’⁴ I wonder what our next natural disaster will be.

When I returned from Paris, I was so inspired to write. However, I find being a writer a challenge, as well it being a challenge to think of myself as a writer. I made a real effort on my novel over the holidays. Currently, it’s more like a collection of ideas, or scenes. I am now working on the ending. Now for the fine tuning and some additions. Then again, perhaps I need to put it in the freezer for a while, like Joan Didion.

I took the advice of Patti, our teacher in Paris, and just wrote words on the page to get the story down. That was good advice. I want to keep up the enthusiasm for writing I developed in Paris. My goal is to have a version finalised in a few months – that unattainable date! There is also the whole process of editing, finding an agent, approaching publishers, and waiting for feedback. It sounds daunting.

As I was growing up in Crows Nest, I was exposed to books, literature and encouraged to pursue my dreams, my ambitions. The security of a loving family, an ambitious father, a book-loving mother, and an artistic twin sister was the recipe I needed. I was always creative, I loved art, painting, reading and photography. These became hobbies as I developed my professional career. Who would have thought being a nurse would eventually lead me down the path of being a creative writer? Then again, nurses are creative people and many friends and colleagues have taken up and excelled in creative ventures. I’m in good company.

Ruth, I was excited by your ponderings about returning to Paris, and it is certainly a possibility. We can chat more about it in the coming months. As you say, the draw of Paris is undeniable. There’s something about Paris and France that inspires writing and writers. It’s exciting. I have a conference in Germany at the end of October, so time in France before sounds perfect. Let’s see what happens.

After our first class together in Paris, I felt inspired to write a travel piece reflecting on my recent trip through Brittany and Normandy. I discovered a writing bug within me. I hope it stays with me for the next few years, at least until the novel is finished. I know it will be a long arduous task and I’m hoping I can draw some inspiration from our letter writing.

I like the idea of the Dordogne. There are so many places yet to be discovered. I’m sure Vicki will also be excited about the possibility. I often have a feeling of ‘what if?’ What if we went back to France, or what if we did write our memoirs, and even what if we’d never gone to Paris? That would’ve changed the course of events. What a bonus that was, all of us going to Paris, meeting each other and our resulting friendships.

I was surprised to hear about the hundreds of pictures you took. You must have truly captured Paris. I have a conservative few to remind me of places in Paris that I found inspiring. Do your pictures inspire you to write? I sometimes use them to describe a scene, to get the detail down on paper. A little bit like sketching, where you capture a moment in time.

I found it hard to write the very personal accounts that memoir writing requires, and that’s why I chose to focus on writing a novel to get me started with creative writing. I do like the personal essay, which I hope to use eventually when I write my memories! I have been reading Robert Dessaix, a master of the personal essay, to understand the style. I think a bit of humour and insight are the main ingredients. From our class it was clear that we all write differently and have different stories to tell. Our letters are a clever way of staying connected, as well as sharing memories. Am I writing a memoir? Heaven forbid!

Letter writing is a dying art. My 97-year-old mother laments its passing, and feels younger generations are missing out. I agree. When I was touring Europe in the early 1970s, letters were so important to let us know what was happening at home. I wrote home about the sights I saw and my thoughts. Reading them now, I’m surprised at what I wrote, my impressions of different cities and my ignorance of history and politics. Those five months touring Europe as an impressionable 24-year-old taught me so much about people, relationships and strange new foods.

The flimsy aerograms we used had just enough space – about one page to cram in all my thoughts and requests from home. Vegemite was always on the list. My writing was so tiny, I struggle to read it now. That’s an age thing! I was one of six young Aussies touring Europe in a Kombi van, as we did at the time. We drove through many countries, learning about the culture and people as we went.

We all got homesick; the letters really kept our spirits up. In those days before the internet, letters were directed to the Poste Restante in key cities for collection. Paris was one such destination, it was at the end of our five-month road trip and we were longing for news from home. Three of us had surnames beginning with H. When we entered the Poste Restante – I’ve forgotten exactly where but it was near the Bois de Boulogne, we were greeted by a stout Frenchman who said, ‘Hayes, Hicks and Hooper, we’ve been expecting you.’ A total of 48 letters were handed over to us. We were famous.

So, on that note, I’m looking forward to writing and seeing where our journey through memory takes us. It’s surprising what we have in common. The more we get to know each other, the more we can share. I’m excited to think that free expression will be part of our writing. I also look forward to writing and learning more about Paris from both of you. Even this little trip down memory lane has triggered feelings of longing for Paris. Perhaps Paris is my writing ‘home’, and it is helping me write. I’m listening to Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety⁵ during my drive to work. I thought listening to the 872 pages was easier than reading it! It’s about the French revolution, specifically in Paris. Although set in the 1700s, there are so many familiar names.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts and rambles wherever they take you.

Au revoir,

Kaye

Vicki

January 2020, Blackheath

Dear Kaye and Ruth,

What a delightful surprise to receive your letters.

It is hard to believe that only two months ago we were living together in La Ville Lumière, the City of Light, surely the most beautiful city in the world, and now I am reduced to watching a Netflix serial Emily in Paris,⁶ and reruns of Midnight in Paris⁷ for a vicarious pleasure fix.

All our special places and backdrops feature in these stories, so I am filled with joy one minute and sadness the next.

Kaye, my favourite memory of you is from our morning walks in the Luxembourg Gardens passing the little sailing boats on the lake as we strode with purpose on our way to class. You looked wonderfully French with your red beret and Audrey Hepburn trench coat with matching accessories. We shared stories of our fellow classmates, our teacher and our struggles with all those writing exercises. I am so pleased and impressed, Kaye, by your dedication to writing. Submitting manuscripts seems so daunting to me. Do please keep us up to date with their progress.

One scene in Emily in Paris reminds me of the view from my apartment balcony at the Citadines Les Halles. Kaye, you convinced me to