10th October 2008

When we made our first tentative foray onto French soil proper three years ago, the plan for our lives was simple really. Him indoors would spend more time on his carpentry hobby and I would explore the world of writing. Since then, we've both learned a few things. One: that making things out of wood is more difficult than at first envisaged - hence many of our new wobbly wooden acquisitions. Two: that I've discovered a lot - not about writing so much, but about agents and publishers! Little did I think when I set out that it isn't the quality of writing that is sought after nowadays, but the relative fame of the author him/herself. To get published these days it's necessary to be: famous, beautiful, young and, if possible, featured recently in a TV reality show. Unfortunately I score zero on all these things. What happened to the old love of beautiful writing as an art in itself? If Will Shakespeare himself were to submit one of his plays today, it would no doubt be rejected. A modern response to this phenomenon has been the mushrooming of IT sites catering for the masses of furious wannabe writers, denied outlets by the old standard routes. Trouble is, I sometimes wonder if these act, not as an instant route to fame, but merely as a Disneyworld queue. You know the scene: move people around barriers and through hoops ad infinitum. This makes everyone think something is happening when in reality it just keeps them occupied. Time will tell. A writer's world is a long and winding road, as Macartney sang. If you want my tales of life in France to lead to your particular 'door', click on the 'Paradis' icon on the right.