You Could Make This Place Beautiful

I've borrowed the title of this post from Maggie Smith's memoir. Because she said it perfectly.

I’m at my holiday house by the beach. This morning I went for my run before anyone in the house was up and when I’d finished, I took off my shoes and my shorts and walked straight into the cold sea in my underwear. There was one other person walking along the beach, a young women, and maybe a few years ago I would have waited until she’d walked past before I went swimming in my knickers and my sports bra. But today I didn’t care. And it felt great—both the not-caring and the cold water on my hot, post-run body. Then I walked back up to the house and jumped in a hot shower and yes, that felt great too. And still nobody in the house was awake. So I made a cup of tea, curled up under a blanket in my favourite chair by the windows that look out over sea and the sky and the horizon and I wrote my morning pages, did a short meditation and then listened to the Poem of the Day podcast. I don’t think I’ve had such a perfect morning in a very long time. And it was so simple. Hot run, cold water, hot shower. Not caring that a stranger I’d never meet again might see me in my underwear. A quiet cup of tea and a beautiful view. Happiness really is so simple when we let it be.

That’s the mood I’d like to take into 2024.

Speaking of 2024 …

I joined Substack in 2023 with this post which was, ironically, about how I’d never been able to keep a diary. Those of you who’ve followed me here for a while will know that 2023 was the year I discovered morning pages, which are both a kind of diary and a habit I’ve stuck to, even though I never intended to start it. (I wonder what anti-resolution I’ll make this year that I end up reversing!) But also in that post are a few snippets of the early sentences that wound their way into The Disappearance of Astrid Bricard and I think my morning pages now are very similar—the extended version perhaps of what I was describing in that post:

“sentences that fill my bankrupt mornings with white dresses and shattered people and tragedies that can perhaps be undone in the press of a letter on my keyboard, in a scene taking shape on the screen in front of me all because as I ran by the river the day before, I heard the echo of a broken heart, saw a girl waiting for a story – and because I wanted to know exactly where was the place it all went wrong for her …”

In my morning pages right now there isn’t a girl whose past is marked by the places where it all went wrong but there is a canal that “laps and rises, spills onto the pavement, splashes when the drunks fall in, shimmers like a dangerous liaison …” and there’s also a strange place at the end of the canal: “so few find it—has anyone? Or are they just repeating the legend of a legend that is more story than real, more dream than shape …”

I don’t know if any of these sentences will wind their way into any book I ever write. But I can see that canal and that shapeless, dreamlike place and it’s the act of imagining them that stretches my writing brain, makes it expand just a little to imagine more things that could then become a sentence, a story, the idea for a book. I suppose that makes my morning pages my warm-up to the act of writing, the place where the dream begins. I like that idea—that in these words I see butterflies rather than grubs. There’s no doubt, no judgement and no fear because these sentences have no audience except the pages they’re written upon.

So the pages have to be up to the task of warming-up and dreams and butterflies, don’t they?! Well, that’s what I decided when I was in Venice last month and I walked past a leather-goods store where they made beautiful, refillable notebooks. They emboss the covers with your name and the paper inside the binding is thick and creamy, just begging to be written upon. Here’s mine in the pic below. How could you resist writing in that?!

Speaking of Venice …

Yes, my trip to Europe with my daughter was incredible. In between visiting an eighteenth century velvet-making atelier in Venice, an Erboristeria in Florence to learn how to make my own perfume and marvelling over the scope of Gaudi’s brilliant mind in Barcelona, I did a lot of looking and a lot of mind-wandering. By mind-wandering I mean exactly that—not scrolling through my phone or even reading a book on, for example, the six hour train ride from Seville to Barcelona, but just looking out the window, following the path of my thoughts, seeing where they wanted to travel to.

And it was exactly what I needed.

I knew I was burnt out and exhausted by the second half of 2023. So I promised myself that I wouldn’t write anything while I was away for the month. It’s probably the longest I’ve ever gone without writing, and it was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Luckily I was between books—I submitted The Secret Life of Marie-Madeleine before I left and I had no idea what to write next. But I’ve come away from my vacation with six potential book ideas, which is incredible for me as I always say I’m a one-idea-at-a-time writer. Yes, I have a favourite. Will it be the one I write next? I don’t know; the book market is all over the place right now. My plan is to wait until the kids go back to school in February and start something then. And to keep looking and mind-wandering. And to keep up the morning pages.

Speaking of Burn Out …

One of the reasons I started this Substack a year ago was because I was tired of how devalued words were becoming, and I was shocked to think of how many of my words I was giving away to Meta via Instagram and Facebook. If you follow me on those platforms, you might have noticed that I haven’t been around much. I did also take a month off Substack. I wanted to see what I missed, and also what was taking all my effort and offering little reward. I think you can probably guess the answer.

I love Substack. I walk away from my favourite newsletters feeling as if I’ve received a gift, rather than regretful at having wasted so much time. And I love the serendipity I always seem to find here. For example …

When I opened my email inbox this morning, there was a newsletter from George Saunders. Reading through the comments, I saw several people recommending Claire Keegan’s book, Small Things Like These, which I received for Christmas. And one of them mentioned attending a writing course offered by Claire. I immediately googled Claire’s writing courses and discovered she’s teaching one in Brisbane in March-April (she lives in Ireland, so I definitely hadn’t expected to find she’d be in Australia very soon.) I’m always looking for ways to expand my range and scope as a writer, so of course I emailed for more info. I plan to go, if the dates work out.

Also in my inbox was this devastatingly beautiful piece from Junot Diaz about the lengths he went to in order to read. Such exquisite happiness in a shopping cart full of books.

And Maggie Smith was in my inbox too. Last night I finished reading her memoir, You Could Make This Place Beautiful. I wish I hadn’t already published my list of favourite books of 2023 because this would absolutely be on it. But that’s okay—I’ll list it in 2024.

In her post, Maggie asks:

What can I set down at the end of this year instead of carrying it into the new one? What can I loosen or release?

I’m setting down burn out. I’m releasing myself from the idea that people will only buy my books if I post on Facebook and Instagram at least five times a week. I’m no longer carrying the weight of the world’s belief that you can’t go swimming in your underwear.

Speaking of You Could Make This Place Beautiful …

That’s my affirmation 2024: You could make this place beautiful. Because I could. We all could. Maybe not wholly and perfectly beautiful, but beauty is usually found in asymmetry anyway.

Speaking of 2024 (again) …

I tried Substack at the start of 2023 with no idea whether it would work out. Whether anyone would read my posts. Whether I’d enjoy writing my posts. What kind of posts I should write. How often I should write them. But I’m still here, so I think it worked well enough. And you’re still here too, which is something I’m very, very grateful for. Thank you for your support. Thank you for believing in Bijoux before I really knew what Bijoux was. Thank you for your comments and shares and subscriptions.

Let’s make 2024 beautiful together. xx