A few years ago, I did a writing residency at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in Florida. It was magical, that place. They had a room full of beach cruisers for us to ride — and the ocean wasn’t very far. The writer who was the “master artist,” Antonya Nelson, turned out to be called Toni, and to be not in the least bit scary, which was my great fear. I got a lot done there. And I became friends with some really remarkable women.
One of these women was Ellen Sussman. I’d been seeing her anthologies around in bookstores with provocative names like Bad Girls, and Dirty Words (which has an essay in it by my first writing teacher, Thaisa Frank) and honestly, I was as intimidated by her as I was by Antonya Nelson.
And then I met Ellen and she wasn’t intimidating in the least. What she is, among many other things, is a really disciplined writer. While we were in Florida, she sold French Lessons, a novel that she had been sweating over for quite a while, to get it just right. Apparently, she got it even more than just right. There was an auction and a glamorous trip to New York to meet with her new editor and a bunch of other stuff that left me speechless because it seemed so, well, professional. And then there was champagne.
And here’s the book. It just came out. It’s wise and bright like Ellen. And quite moving. It’s the sort of book that makes you feel just a little bit more alive, more awake, and grateful that Paris exists and people like Ellen are around to write about it.
So, champagne all around.