Countryside rolled by on both sides of the train. Lush hills dotted with red roofed homes. I first saw the red roofs when our plane made its final approach into de Gaulle. Clouds hovered evenly. Their irregularly shaped shadows engulfing huge sections of farmland like massive Stay Puft grazers.

The farmland was beautiful, too. Several squares of different shades and colors—browns and tans—some just as red as the roofs beneath where French folks lived--spoke to children in French and read books in French. They worked the toiled over land, as their ancestors did in feudal times, years ago.

***

The cabin was small and trolley-like. It had been three hours since the busy stop in Lyon where I'd had enough time to grab an espresso from a pretty vendor, thank her in broken French, and waddle back to the train in my American shoes, clutching my American bag.

I noticed immediately when I got to France that people wore different things here than in America. I glanced over towards a young man in his twenties at the baggage claim area, well dressed in casual attire, and saw his slim, trim, sleek and slender shoes. I looked down at my clown's feet, New Balance sneakers. They seemed fine when I'd picked them out, but now they just seemed opposite. It was like I was in high school again. I felt as if everyone was looking at me, taking notice of my ridiculous outfit, turning away to chuckle, moving around the carousel to alert a family member or to get a better perspective.

Now, a little more than a week into my trip and it had become an obsession. I studied more French feet than French art and I made plans inside my head to do as much research in France as possible, and when I got home and could gather the money, I would buy the coolest pair of shoes America had ever seen.

But the train car was empty. Save for a few folks who would get on and off again, it was a ghost car. The conductor, my personal French chauffeur. Besides, research could wait. I was far too enthralled with my view—this new world I was privy to like a would-be voyeur—an impartial witness bound only by common genetics.

Putting this in submit so folks have a chance to view it (does anyone check prose section?) and perhaps in a few days, an editor could be so kind as to move it there for me.

Thanks, and thanks for your comments. This is one part of a piece I am working on now...very rough, but I haven't been able to get past my own thoughts on this...would appreciate a second pair of eyes.

Thanks SL. I guess I chose less complicated language for the coffee because I wanted to show the narrator as an amateur...a young, dumb, and slightly spell-bound kid. I appreciate your thoughts and will keep that in mind as the voice in this piece becomes clearer.

Joe

joseph -- flow-wise, maybe open with the "I first saw" line and cloud images that follow.  Then ground on the train and revisit the red tiles and intro the countryside . . . just a thought. 

Love the bit about studying French feet more than art.  Reveals a great deal about the anxiety [fashion or personal evaluation] of the N. 

ld

Lynn, thanks for the thoughtful read. I really appreciate your view on writing in prose--I know a while back you were working on a book. How'd that go?

I agree with you that the intro needs a tweak.

books -- arghhhhh [and various words i may mutter in the quiet confines of frustration].  muse is on hiatus at the moment.  muse = imagination [or any functioning brain cell]

let me know when you want this moved over to prose board.

ld

Yes, and if you have any suggestions for surviving prose/fiction...let me know :p

Surviving prose/fiction . . . hmm.  If you mean in general -- well, I'd be ever so grateful to know the answer to that one.  In most instances, with my prose, whether fiction or creative non-fiction (I'm not much for essays), I try to stay entertained as I write.  The characters or settings or individual words are maybe a little like cards and I sort of keep trying to build a house with those cards, one that holds up, at least for me, and at least long enough for me to sigh with a sense of accomplishment.  The action of building the thing, entertains me.  What's great is if the construction happens to entertain somebody, anybody, else. 

If you mean survival of prose/fiction posts here at pc -- well, it's pretty much a starvation diet.  I sometimes send a PM to someone or other I've become a little familiar with via the poetry, or someone I may not be all that familiar with but who may seem to me to have some expertise or experience in the area my topic may explore and there's a chance they may find my prose post of interest, or be able to set me straight as to facts.  Or I might PM someone who also posts in the prose area, assuming they enjoy prose, and ask them to take a look. 

I think shorter posts, whether here or on a personal blog or wherever on the internet, have a better chance of being read if they are short -- and whole.  Like flash or micro fiction.  I find the writing of short-short fiction or non-fiction is a great tool for honing the craft.  You know how it is.  Even the long narrative poems take time and sometimes they garner fewer reviews than they might merit -- simply because reader time is limited. 

Also, comments, say between you and me, bring the post back up on the front page of the site.  You never know when some reader might stumble into a piece of prose and find themselves caught up in the writing.  I don't mind a dialogue discussing writing on a thread dealing with the writing.  And I don't mind PM's requesting I take a look at a poem or story.  I can't always respond the same day and sometimes not even the same week, but I will respond if I'm asked [and if I forget, I don't mind a nudge to remember].

ld

Tee hee. I meant surviving it metaphorically...like, oh my god, how do I keep my creative/imaginative edge...how do I, as you say, build that house of cards. I know there is no easy answer and I meant it a tad rhetorically, but if you have tips, PM me and we can chat about specific hurdles I am facing. This piece is meant, I guess, as an exercise. Perhaps, with your keenly prosaic eye, you can pick up on what I am doing well--and what I need work on :)

I think metaphorically is what I was trying to answer with my card house and self-entertainment response.  When I take my work, my time at my work [which is to say my writing] too seriously, my creative/imaginative edge erodes until there's no edge at all. 

Have placed your post below, in case you make edits to original.

`

I studied more French feet than French art


`