Pathology & Syntax

Drafting a First Novel in a French Chateau—and Finding Something More Than Words

“Something I knew then to be true, and still believe now: the Christian life is long and narrow, like an icicle. My father always said Christianity is a faith that progresses logically, but I never agreed. I think the shape and reach of faith has its white space and hard parameters built by something obsessive, with love or strange purpose maybe. In our home, the Lord was our shepherd, and he carried us by our doll-like hair. Here’s where he took me.”

This is from my novel-in-progress, a story about faith, shame, compulsions, and the unusual paths we take in trying to understand the love that shaped us. This moment belongs to Anya, the narrator, recalling the version of God she was raised with and what that God took away (then gave in return).

The church depicted in the photograph is of Saint Andre’s church in Orquevaux, France, and I love that its bells started ringing as soon as I finished writing this passage.

A few days ago I completed my three week residency at the Chateau d’Orquevaux in the Champagne-Ardenne region of France. Here I completed the first draft of my novel. I’m not one to post writing updates (unless it’s a publication), but because I’ve never written a novel before and was not sure if I’d ever see the end of this first draft, I can’t help but shout this victory from the digital rooftops.

The Chateau d’Orquevaux is an international artists residency. The estate once belonged to Denis Diderot’s family, and the writer-philosopher was known to visit during the summers. I haven’t read much Diderot, but I’ve always resonated with his ideas on art, notably “First move me, astonish me, break my heart, let me tremble, weep, stare, be enraged—only then regale my eyes.”

Today 400 creatives worldwide stay for 2-3 week residencies throughout the year. The residency provides a room to write and a studio for visual artists. All meals are provided and residents are encouraged to disconnect from, to quote the website, “real-world energy.” I can’t imagine a time in my life now or in the future where I’ll ever struggle with such an act if given the opportunity.

At the chateau, I stayed in a corner room overlooking a pond and an old church. For 21 days, I was absurdly pampered as I slept during the day and wrote late into the night. There are many things I found to love about the residency—the grounds, the tall French windows, the meals, the coffee machine, the talented friends I made—but the most important among them is that I learned I genuinely love and need to write. Even if my life looked like a Van Gogh painting, I would still spend inordinate amounts of time alone in a room, trying to put words together in just the right way. Writing the book even when I fail at everything else. Going deeper into the dark and still managing to play.

At the end of the residency, writers and artists are asked to share their work with their cohort and solicit feedback. Because I’m me I said to hell with all of that and ended my residency early to explore the Riviera, Burgundy, and Champagne regions with my boyfriend. I will cherish these memories forever. They shine on like a ribbon in my brain, binding the past’s stupid brutality—a quiet reminder that my life is mine.

As a writer, I live in the space where pathology meets syntax, trying to say the unsayable. I struggle to talk about my novel or any piece of writing because the stories are always so much more than what I can intellectually describe. I’m far from the only writer who feels this way. I think the best kind of writing is not unlike a trompe-l’oeil—something that first appears simple or sweet but reveals its layered world once you bite in. I hope to share my book with you one day.