NEEDLING

SLAP ME SILLY

I met up with C. around her place at that café she likes. I was having a crème before she arrived, and working, making notes on something or other. When she arrived, she scared the living S... out of me by tapping my shoulder while I was totally concentrated on something or other. We get all the "How you doing?" "What's been happening?" "How's F.?” (her boyfriend) "You're not too tired?" "I been sick since last week..." blablabla... out of the way, when I finally get it off my chest.

(Conversation recorded is inaccurate. It is a very ROUGH rendition of a conversation which took more than one hour in French, put down in a few untalented and difficult lines. Not to be taken literally as in : on a word to word basis. Basically, the words are mine, not anybody else’s, and should not be interpreted as quotes or anything journalistic or truthful like that.)

"Whadda you think about my blog?"
"I don't like it," she says going straight to business.
"Wh-what... whadda you mean you don't like it?"
"Rubbish."
"Rubbish?"
"That's what I said."
"Whadda you mean?" My ego was turning bright red.
"What!" She says, "did you expect me to tell you how great you are?"
"No... I mean..." Feeling stupid. I always expect people to tell me how great I am.
"This way we could just get the subject done and over with real quick. We wouldn't have to talk about it. I should’a told you how much I loved it this way we’d be talking about something useful by now, and you wouldn't be mad at me."
"No... I mean, come on, is it that bad?"
"You write like an American talking about Paris for the first time. I don't think you missed a single cliché. One or two can be forgiven. But every single word? Give me a break."
"It-it's... it's like that! I mean, what the hell do you want me to say?"
"Not that." Then she started to get detailed about it. "Prostitutes, train stations, undercover cops, what are you writing? A journal or a ‘Polar?" (Polar = French Noir fiction which I happen to enjoy reading.)
"But that's how it is, what am I suppose to write about?"
"That."
"That?"
"Yeah... write about that. But without being so freaking cliché!!!"
I was turning red because, 1) I knew she was right; 2) I didn't want to admit it; 3) admitting it would mean having to write differently; 4) writing AND thinking equals WORK; 5) I'm a lazy bum.
Still trying to defend myself, I said, "but didn't you like it when I described the little garden in the hospital?"
"Sure, that was fine, but then you had to mention you-know-who."
"You-know-who? But I like you-know-who. Is it my fault you don't like you-know-who? What!!! So what the hell do I talk about, I can't say a damn thing without it being a cliché. For god's sake, Paris IS a cliché, Paris is the capital of clichés, Paris LIVES for clichés. How can I talk about Paris then?"
"Not like that."
"And I did grow up in West Texas, you know, so I am, in a way, an American in Paris." I am French of Breton extract and grew up in West Texas.
"You've told me the same thing about this writer writing about New Orleans. I liked it because I was learning something, so I showed it to you and you hated it, you said it was just ONE BIG CLICHE."
"What writer?"
"You know, the one I was showing you."
"I don't remember, he must have been bad."
"Write about the train station, the prostitutes, the canal Saint-Martin if you want, but not like that."
"How? Then..."
"That's up to you. But don't do it like you're trying to sell Paris to American readers. Do it like you live here, like this is your city, like this is what you're living with everyday and you're not just here for a couple of months writing a travel article for some slick magazine."

We left it at that and went to a different café and had a couple more drinks. Then we went to her place and finished off a bottle of red before she had to head off.