What It’s Like To Be A Writer Living In Paris
Sun and solitude are companions to a woman who lounges in a coffee shop terrace. She sits in a bistro chair with coffee in one hand and a book in the other. I walk further down the cobbled roads of the Seine to find a man scribbling away seemingly important thoughts in a leather notebook. There, there are also adventurers from across the globe who crowd the Parisian bookstands to forage for treasures. Paris has long been a city of solace for writers and bibliophiles.
I was sixteen and immediately charmed the first time I came to Paris. I caught the light shining off of each artist’s life story shared with me, giggled with delight at the dedicated street performers, and hoped to one day bring joy to others through the art I vowed to create.
Moving to Paris
Paris left an imprint on my soul. Even as the years passed after my trip, I never forgot the people I met in this sanctuary city for international creatives. Each decision I made unknowingly seemed to be calling me back to Paris. One day, I finally listened to the voice and returned to my adopted city at the age of twenty-two. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do or how I would become like the people I so greatly admired, so I decided to incorporate art into my life like a true Parisian and took as many classes as I could.
I danced in forgotten spare rooms of hauntingly beautiful churches. Watercolor became a new discovery for me. I attended writing workshops with fellow foreigners. Their love of language allowed them to speak even their second languages with eloquence and beauty that stupefied me. I loved participating in different forms of creativity in the city, which seems to dote on artists the most. Still, I found that I was most captivated by the writers I connected with. I, too, have a love for words that twirl through your mind. Sentences that make your heart skip a beat. So, I decided I’d focus more on my writing.
What does it mean to be an artist?
Even so, it can feel daunting to sit in a space where everywhere you go, impressively creative minds surround you. Each time I sat down to write, I felt a sea of self-doubt crash over me. It was exhausting, to say the least. I simply wanted to write for self-expression. To feel something by creating. So I decided early on that I wouldn’t let others’ thoughts (especially my own) lead me astray. I wanted to follow my highly amusing path which was trying to align me with the vision I had for my life. I would write for myself. Because writing, reading, language, and words bring me delight. Art brings me joy. So I didn’t see the point of restricting it!
Changing my mindset
These days, I feel more energized than demoralized by the creative people I find in this city I call home. I descend the creaky winding stairs from my chambre de bonne to walk out into a world where everything seems to be polished and on-purpose. A perfectly placed beret perches on top of a woman’s head as she sips her coffee. The unscuffed shoes of a passerby match his elegantly groomed canine companion. A bike whisks by escorting a cheerful young woman towards her destiny.
Even those who don’t consider themselves creative or “artists” themselves are art. There’s an abundance of poetic moments to fuel our art if we look at the world more closely. As soon as we begin to see ourselves as artists, we are set free. We can enjoy and participate in the creation of art. Sometimes it just begins with a choice to be brave. If we allow it, this courage can help us step out and make something, anything, which can eventually define us as artists. No degree, workshop, or person can honor us with this badge but ourselves.
