Never thought I'd catch a Flyleaf Books mention from a Parisian literary newsletter, but Substack makes for a small world. What a tale!
Fun fact: I used to live 10 minutes up the road from the store and have been thrilled to see it survive the pandemic, along with other bookstores in the area.
For starters, drinking 50 beers sounds like a real panacea if your ailment is living
Second, feeling successful from personal milestones (publishing, book tours, etc.) plus the absolute financial disconnect and the constant hollowness of social media-based self-branding is just a unique hell that literary figures of the past could scarcely know. But imagine the imposter syndrome that must've pervaded authors who had only legacy press to gauge themselves. Good stuff
A cautionary tale, but an inspirational one also. The only function of the writer is to write: money, fame etc are by-products, and must never be an aim. Once one accepts this and adjusts one's priorities accordingly, there is , at least in my own case, a sense of release and freedom. Keep up the good work.
I really like the title of your substack which vibrates for me. Paris is ultimately the most beautiful and romantic city I know, but my time there was vastly different than the one you write about. I'd just finished a 3-months junket to London where I'd gone to hear punk bands I'd only been able to worship from afar. My trip had gone well enough. I'd found a temporary job in the mailroom of a publishing house, I’d seen the bands and eaten the greasy food. My time for hanging around London had come to an end and, with just a bit of money in my pocket, I thought I should take a look at Paris.
I was going to stay for a couple of days and wander around, but I ended up staying for a year and a half. It happened because I met a beautiful french girl who sat in the seat next to me on the bus to gare du nord. She convinced one of her friends to let me crash at his house, and one thing led to another and I ended up living with this beautiful girl in a garret-like apartment in the 18th arrondissement. I didn't speak french and I didn't have work papers, but I found a job as a laborer in a fly-by-night construction company where my job was to help chisel away the facades of old buildings and mix "la colle" from sand and lime and cement to hoist in buckets to the masons. All the other construction guys were from Yugoslavia (when there still was such a country) and they were like grizzled pirates from a pirate ship, argumentative beyond belief, crazy and passionate and drunk. We came down from the scaffolding for breaks five or six times a day to whichever cafe was nearby, and I'd return to my love nest near Pigalle staggering from booze and coated in dust. On my days off we'd lie in bed all day and, in between times, walk for miles. I loved the walkways along the Seine. I loved the cafes with their pinball machines. The cheap wine is as good as expensive wine here. I loved Paris and I should have never left it but—you know how it goes—when you're young you think stupidly: what am I doing with my life? Shouldn't I try to make something of myself? The french girl left me after we came to California. I became a graphic artist and a fiction writer. My publishing adventures have been more spotty and less successful than yours, and I've had to do all sorts of jobs to support my creative habits over the years…. In any case, your story in the column above made me want to add a few of my own memories, vis-a-vis Paris…
Thanks for your kind remarks. I wish I’d kept a record of those days. I did write letters to lots of people but those letters are long gone. I didn’t even have a camera. I do have a black-and-white contact sheet with some images I took with a borrowed camera and that’s about all. One of these years I’ll get back there, but it’s all so much more complicated now. I look forward to reading more of your posts. Ruben (from the Nature Preserve)
I love how you frame this three-part autobiography. If it were a book, I'd say "I couldn't put it down." But since it's digital--I couldn't stop scrolling. Wonderful storytelling.
Never thought I'd catch a Flyleaf Books mention from a Parisian literary newsletter, but Substack makes for a small world. What a tale!
Fun fact: I used to live 10 minutes up the road from the store and have been thrilled to see it survive the pandemic, along with other bookstores in the area.
For starters, drinking 50 beers sounds like a real panacea if your ailment is living
Second, feeling successful from personal milestones (publishing, book tours, etc.) plus the absolute financial disconnect and the constant hollowness of social media-based self-branding is just a unique hell that literary figures of the past could scarcely know. But imagine the imposter syndrome that must've pervaded authors who had only legacy press to gauge themselves. Good stuff
A cautionary tale, but an inspirational one also. The only function of the writer is to write: money, fame etc are by-products, and must never be an aim. Once one accepts this and adjusts one's priorities accordingly, there is , at least in my own case, a sense of release and freedom. Keep up the good work.
It will be interesting to see how Footnote 2 shakes out. I’ve been trying to ignore a similar idea.
Wait, are you still in the band? Are you still in grad school? How are you doing it all from Paris? I’m not done with the story 😍
I really like the title of your substack which vibrates for me. Paris is ultimately the most beautiful and romantic city I know, but my time there was vastly different than the one you write about. I'd just finished a 3-months junket to London where I'd gone to hear punk bands I'd only been able to worship from afar. My trip had gone well enough. I'd found a temporary job in the mailroom of a publishing house, I’d seen the bands and eaten the greasy food. My time for hanging around London had come to an end and, with just a bit of money in my pocket, I thought I should take a look at Paris.
I was going to stay for a couple of days and wander around, but I ended up staying for a year and a half. It happened because I met a beautiful french girl who sat in the seat next to me on the bus to gare du nord. She convinced one of her friends to let me crash at his house, and one thing led to another and I ended up living with this beautiful girl in a garret-like apartment in the 18th arrondissement. I didn't speak french and I didn't have work papers, but I found a job as a laborer in a fly-by-night construction company where my job was to help chisel away the facades of old buildings and mix "la colle" from sand and lime and cement to hoist in buckets to the masons. All the other construction guys were from Yugoslavia (when there still was such a country) and they were like grizzled pirates from a pirate ship, argumentative beyond belief, crazy and passionate and drunk. We came down from the scaffolding for breaks five or six times a day to whichever cafe was nearby, and I'd return to my love nest near Pigalle staggering from booze and coated in dust. On my days off we'd lie in bed all day and, in between times, walk for miles. I loved the walkways along the Seine. I loved the cafes with their pinball machines. The cheap wine is as good as expensive wine here. I loved Paris and I should have never left it but—you know how it goes—when you're young you think stupidly: what am I doing with my life? Shouldn't I try to make something of myself? The french girl left me after we came to California. I became a graphic artist and a fiction writer. My publishing adventures have been more spotty and less successful than yours, and I've had to do all sorts of jobs to support my creative habits over the years…. In any case, your story in the column above made me want to add a few of my own memories, vis-a-vis Paris…
Loved your story and your work. Truly wonderful that such happiness was born during the worst year of COVID. Keep up the great work.
Thanks for your kind remarks. I wish I’d kept a record of those days. I did write letters to lots of people but those letters are long gone. I didn’t even have a camera. I do have a black-and-white contact sheet with some images I took with a borrowed camera and that’s about all. One of these years I’ll get back there, but it’s all so much more complicated now. I look forward to reading more of your posts. Ruben (from the Nature Preserve)
This series is beautiful Samuel.
Quite the inspirational read for la rentrée
I love how you frame this three-part autobiography. If it were a book, I'd say "I couldn't put it down." But since it's digital--I couldn't stop scrolling. Wonderful storytelling.
Loved this whole series, Samuel. 🥂
See you tomorrow!