Jen Carter's Blog - Posts Tagged "chasing-paris"
Excerpt from Chasing Paris
Hello and welcome! I am excited about releasing my first novel, Chasing Paris, and I wanted to share some of it with you.
One of my favorite scenes is when Elizabeth Hathaway first meets Billy Strath. It's Amy's introduction to the grandmother she never knew. Here it is:
Paris, July 1955
A chill hung in the morning air. Billy cupped his hands around his mouth and blew warm breath against his fingers. Then he rubbed his hands together, working some of the stiffness from them. He looked up from his easel. There she was, walking toward him with a cup of coffee. With the breeze lifting her nearly-black hair away from her face and swirling her skirt about her legs, she reminded him of someone. Those green eyes and wind burned cheeks—they were so familiar. Perhaps a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He wished the coffee she carried was for him, but she walked past him, dark hair fluttering against her arms and white skin glowing in the sun, right to the artist set up on his left.
Billy’s French was poor, but he could understand what she and his artist neighbor were talking about. He had to concentrate on their words, and unconsciously, he found himself staring at them instead of paying attention to his work.
She looked at Billy and raised an eyebrow.
“This,” he said in broken French and holding up a nub of charcoal, “is about to become your image.”
“I don’t want my portrait drawn,” she responded.
“That doesn’t matter.”
She slung her hair behind her shoulder. “Many artists have tried to create images of me before,” she said, this time in English. “Yours will be just like the rest.”
“Only if you look at it the same way you’ve looked at the others,” he responded more comfortably in English.
His fingers finally began to warm. He started to sketch, and she continued talking with Billy’s artist neighbor.
The drawing was only half-finished when she stood and touched her friend’s shoulder to say goodbye. She stepped toward Billy’s easel and examined his progress.
“You’re right,” she said, again speaking in English. “Yours is different. Unfinished.” She walked down the row of artists, her hair swishing behind her, her skirt snapping around her legs.
“Where are you going?” Billy called after her. She simply shook her head, responding with the ripple of her hair. He rubbed his blackened hands on his pants and removed the dusty drawing from the easel. “Who is that woman?” he asked his artist neighbor in French.
Jean scratched his beard, looking after her. “Elizabeth Hathaway. Her sister is a student at the Sorbonne, and she visits every summer. She likes to come out here sometimes and talk to the artists.”
“You know her well?”
“We are friendly. She likes stories.”
“Have I seen her before?”
The artist chuckled. “If you haven’t, you’ve been blind.”
Billy’s eyebrows rose. He continued gazing in her direction. “I’m blind no longer. Do you know where I can find her? If I wanted to see her again?”
His neighbor shrugged. “Go to the University. I am sure she’s staying with her sister.”
“The Sorbonne, yes?”
“Or, you could wait until she comes back here. It won’t be long.”
Billy nodded slowly. “The Sorbonne.” His mind wandered over the possibilities. Then he put Elizabeth out of his mind and began concentrating on his work.
That night, he finished the sketch by memory. With the last stroke of charcoal, he stepped back and smiled. He would see her again. Somehow, he was sure of it.
One of my favorite scenes is when Elizabeth Hathaway first meets Billy Strath. It's Amy's introduction to the grandmother she never knew. Here it is:
Paris, July 1955
A chill hung in the morning air. Billy cupped his hands around his mouth and blew warm breath against his fingers. Then he rubbed his hands together, working some of the stiffness from them. He looked up from his easel. There she was, walking toward him with a cup of coffee. With the breeze lifting her nearly-black hair away from her face and swirling her skirt about her legs, she reminded him of someone. Those green eyes and wind burned cheeks—they were so familiar. Perhaps a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He wished the coffee she carried was for him, but she walked past him, dark hair fluttering against her arms and white skin glowing in the sun, right to the artist set up on his left.
Billy’s French was poor, but he could understand what she and his artist neighbor were talking about. He had to concentrate on their words, and unconsciously, he found himself staring at them instead of paying attention to his work.
She looked at Billy and raised an eyebrow.
“This,” he said in broken French and holding up a nub of charcoal, “is about to become your image.”
“I don’t want my portrait drawn,” she responded.
“That doesn’t matter.”
She slung her hair behind her shoulder. “Many artists have tried to create images of me before,” she said, this time in English. “Yours will be just like the rest.”
“Only if you look at it the same way you’ve looked at the others,” he responded more comfortably in English.
His fingers finally began to warm. He started to sketch, and she continued talking with Billy’s artist neighbor.
The drawing was only half-finished when she stood and touched her friend’s shoulder to say goodbye. She stepped toward Billy’s easel and examined his progress.
“You’re right,” she said, again speaking in English. “Yours is different. Unfinished.” She walked down the row of artists, her hair swishing behind her, her skirt snapping around her legs.
“Where are you going?” Billy called after her. She simply shook her head, responding with the ripple of her hair. He rubbed his blackened hands on his pants and removed the dusty drawing from the easel. “Who is that woman?” he asked his artist neighbor in French.
Jean scratched his beard, looking after her. “Elizabeth Hathaway. Her sister is a student at the Sorbonne, and she visits every summer. She likes to come out here sometimes and talk to the artists.”
“You know her well?”
“We are friendly. She likes stories.”
“Have I seen her before?”
The artist chuckled. “If you haven’t, you’ve been blind.”
Billy’s eyebrows rose. He continued gazing in her direction. “I’m blind no longer. Do you know where I can find her? If I wanted to see her again?”
His neighbor shrugged. “Go to the University. I am sure she’s staying with her sister.”
“The Sorbonne, yes?”
“Or, you could wait until she comes back here. It won’t be long.”
Billy nodded slowly. “The Sorbonne.” His mind wandered over the possibilities. Then he put Elizabeth out of his mind and began concentrating on his work.
That night, he finished the sketch by memory. With the last stroke of charcoal, he stepped back and smiled. He would see her again. Somehow, he was sure of it.
Coming up with Chasing Paris
Recently, I’ve been asked a lot about how I came up with the storyline for Chasing Paris, and it’s been such fun remembering and sharing. I thought I would go ahead and share it here, too.
Thirteen years ago, I was a junior in college. One beautiful spring day, I was sitting in a lecture on Elizabethan Literature, half listening to the professor and half staring out the window. I loved being in this professor’s class. She was passionate and inspiring, and most of the time I hung on her every word. But on this particular day I was staring out the window because of my used textbook. The notes that the previous owner had written next to one poem in particular didn’t make any sense to me; I couldn’t figure out what they possibly could have meant. I found myself wondering about the person who had taken those notes. Who was she? How had the professor in her class explained that poem differently than my professor?
I started to think about how the margin notes in a used textbook could become a snapshot of the book owner’s life. Underlined passages, little smiling faces, stars, question marks—they all tell us something about the owner. We can begin to see what a person likes, dislikes, or doesn’t understand. We might even begin to see what that person values.
Then the idea hit me.
After class, I ran home, sat at my computer, closed my eyes, and started typing. It was just bits and pieces of characters and scenes that appeared in my head. An old man. An old book. A woman with long dark hair. Paris. Heartbreak. Sisters. Thoughts about the classes I had taken that week crept in. Shakespeare—love him. Milton—hate him. Themes began emerging, and I kept writing. Before I knew it, the story was about so much more than a used textbook.
A couple weeks later, I went home for the summer and announced to my parents that I was going to write a book. I had the storyline all set, and I just needed to write it. My parents weren’t surprised. They had been encouraging me to write practically since I could pick up a pencil, and they had watched my attachment to stories and storytelling grow for years. So I began the project with them cheering me on.
I wrote Chasing Paris on and off for a number of years, loving it, loathing it, and loving it again. I put it aside many times to work on other projects, but I always found myself coming back to it.
A lot happened from the time I began this book to the time I finished it. I graduated college and got a job. I hated being away from a classroom, so I went to grad school. I began teaching. I met and married my husband. We had two beautiful girls. Every step of the way, my ideas for the book changed. It evolved as my life evolved, and I’m glad I had the time to watch the characters develop. The process has been so very exciting for me.
The best part is that I have something to give my little girls when they grow up.
And that’s it—that’s how Chasing Paris came to be!
Thirteen years ago, I was a junior in college. One beautiful spring day, I was sitting in a lecture on Elizabethan Literature, half listening to the professor and half staring out the window. I loved being in this professor’s class. She was passionate and inspiring, and most of the time I hung on her every word. But on this particular day I was staring out the window because of my used textbook. The notes that the previous owner had written next to one poem in particular didn’t make any sense to me; I couldn’t figure out what they possibly could have meant. I found myself wondering about the person who had taken those notes. Who was she? How had the professor in her class explained that poem differently than my professor?
I started to think about how the margin notes in a used textbook could become a snapshot of the book owner’s life. Underlined passages, little smiling faces, stars, question marks—they all tell us something about the owner. We can begin to see what a person likes, dislikes, or doesn’t understand. We might even begin to see what that person values.
Then the idea hit me.
After class, I ran home, sat at my computer, closed my eyes, and started typing. It was just bits and pieces of characters and scenes that appeared in my head. An old man. An old book. A woman with long dark hair. Paris. Heartbreak. Sisters. Thoughts about the classes I had taken that week crept in. Shakespeare—love him. Milton—hate him. Themes began emerging, and I kept writing. Before I knew it, the story was about so much more than a used textbook.
A couple weeks later, I went home for the summer and announced to my parents that I was going to write a book. I had the storyline all set, and I just needed to write it. My parents weren’t surprised. They had been encouraging me to write practically since I could pick up a pencil, and they had watched my attachment to stories and storytelling grow for years. So I began the project with them cheering me on.
I wrote Chasing Paris on and off for a number of years, loving it, loathing it, and loving it again. I put it aside many times to work on other projects, but I always found myself coming back to it.
A lot happened from the time I began this book to the time I finished it. I graduated college and got a job. I hated being away from a classroom, so I went to grad school. I began teaching. I met and married my husband. We had two beautiful girls. Every step of the way, my ideas for the book changed. It evolved as my life evolved, and I’m glad I had the time to watch the characters develop. The process has been so very exciting for me.
The best part is that I have something to give my little girls when they grow up.
And that’s it—that’s how Chasing Paris came to be!
