The next book you have to write
I thought I’d write a finance book. A smart little read about saving and making money. *How-To. Clears throat. Straightens tie.* I began in earnest and soon had enough of an outline to know where I was going with it. The problem was, I never wanted to talk about it with anyone. It’s not that it was such a super terrific idea that I wanted to keep it all to myself. Sometimes that happens and it’s nice to mull enthusiastically to self, to cradle an idea until you’re certain about what you’re creating. But that’s not what this was. I didn’t want to share my book idea because to do so made me tired. Meh. Finance book. Who cares.What I wanted to talk about was my new life in Paris. See, I had saved up enough cash to quit my job and travel. I landed in Paris and stayed to investigate a smouldering look I was getting from a butcher across the street. THAT story had energy. THAT story was what I wanted to talk about with anyone who would listen (my blog readers, mostly). I pondered what the most delightful first line of a book written by me might be. “We met in a café in Paris.” So that’s where my story began, when I met the lovely Christophe at a café in Paris, across from that butcher shop.I scrapped the finance book and wrote about life in Paris and how I got there. Of course, how I got there had a lot to do with saving up and making the money to buy myself a few years of travel, so I sprinkled those tidbits in the book. A light dusting. I added a fun story of how I painted pictures on letters I mailed out to friends, and eventually to those who subscribed on my Etsy shop. Then I’d go out in the day and discover a little bookshop, overhear an interesting conversation, taste a new cheese or wine or dish. I’d return and weave it all into Janice’s Fun Book About Fun Paris Things, People And Events As Told Through Letters To Her Friends. That long title evolved into a much shorter title: Letters from Paris. But even that wasn’t great. I didn’t like the “from.” It felt flat on the tongue and tiresome like the finance book. I asked myself again: If I were going to give this book any title I wanted, what would it be? Paris Letters. Simple. Easy to spell. Not a mouthful. Fun.
