Wow. 2011 sure has been something. Definitely easier on me than 2010 since there was no cancer surgery and no radiation treatment. I turned 35 and that lit a fire under my ass. Thanks to NaNoWriMo and Pilates, I am more focused and together than I have been since before my mother died over seven years ago. How strange it is not to have a 24-hour cyclone in my brain. This might have something to do with the change in the dose of Levothyrox for my cancer treatment, too. Chris Baty and Uncle Joe can’t take all the credit.
In 2011, I finally set foot in Italy (Venice) and realised a dream I have had since the age of 6. I also experienced the Istrian Peninsula, which was familiar and new at the same time.
For 2012, my original plan was to finish the first draft of my NaNo novel, continue with rewrites and shop it around by next Christmakwanzakkah. However, a rare opportunity to study with the novelist Jake Lamar presented itself and I have decided to suspend other projects in favour of being a sponge for six months. It will be a special challenge since I have never written fiction directly in French before. I suppose I could write in English, but that would deprive me of feedback from other participants. I have been very protective of my writing for a long time. It’s time to take some punches. Or relearn how to take them.
2012 will be the first year in France that I don’t have to stand out in front of the Direction des Etrangers de Seine-Saint-Denis in the cold and dark with rats around my feet for five hours before waiting another four inside for my yearly visa paperwork. (And…inhale.) My plan is to apply for dual citizenship after the French Presidential Election is all over. There is really no point to handing in any paperwork for a while. According to my next-door neighbour who handles social security cases for sans-papiers, there is an unspoken directive for higher-level civil servants to come to work but not make any progress on any cases until the end of the second round.
My desire to vote in France has inspired my French husband to get his voting card and rocket launch himself out of his apathy. Or maybe all that has nothing to do with me and I’m flattering myself. Since I can’t vote, I have been been displaying my choice with a bright red wide wale corduroy jacket and a hand-knit rose red scarf and hat combo. In France, red is not the colour of the out-of-touch-no-really-what-planet-are-you-on conservatives or the extreme right-wing whack-job Holocaust-denying goons, but of the Socialists. The other day, I heard a woman behind me say to her friend, ‘See? I told you red would be the cool colour this winter.’ I hope it’s still the cool colour next spring.
To the many friends I am so lucky to have in my life, if I had the money, you’d all get a bottle of Ruinart from me for this weekend. And, for those friends bravely collecting their sobriety chips or who just don’t like booze, something with a ton of Valrhona chocolate in it. You’re all gorgeous and fabulous!
