Just Write It Down

Guest post by author Ruth Druart
Ruth Druart grew up on the Isle of Wight, moving away at the age of eighteen to study psychology at Leicester University. She has lived in Paris since 1993, where she has followed a career in teaching. She has recently taken a sabbatical, so that she can follow her dream of writing full-time. In her debut novel While Paris Slept, which releases on February 23rd 2021, a family’s love is tested when heroes-turned-criminals are forced to make the hardest decisions of their lives in this unforgettably moving story of love, resistance, and the lasting consequences of the Second World War.

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There’s only one way to get your book written, and that’s to sit down and write it; and whether you think it’s good or not, just keep going. Write it again and again until you think you’re nearly there. And then rewrite it. Because it will never be perfect. Never. But by sheer force of effort it will get closer, then one day you might find yourself thinking, this is quite readable. And that’s when you’ve hit the spot.

I’ve always enjoyed creating scenarios in my head, making up stories based around people I know; seeing which ones bring a lump to my throat. After the birth of my third son I was often up in the in the middle of the night, breastfeeding in the dark; a ripe time for letting my imagination run wild. One night while I was pondering on the intensity and power of motherlove, a story took root, and over the next few nights it grew into a story I knew I had to tell. But first I had to learn how to write. Being a teacher myself, I believe anything can be learned if you are truly motivated. And I was. I was passionate about this story.

It was 1999 when I started writing it down, and While Paris Slept will be released in March 2021. It was a labour of love, and part of the reason it took so long was that I had three young boys to raise, as well as a teaching job. But the main reason was that I had a lot to learn about writing. Having gone to school in the seventies and early eighties, I knew nothing about sentence construction; I didn’t even know how to write dialogue. Or, maybe I’d just forgotten. Fortunately, I wasn’t in a hurry, and I was enjoying the journey. Sometimes I would put my writing away for a few months at a time, then go back to it with a fresh eye.

Early on, when I had a few pages ready, I showed them to a valued friend. Her response was, “I don’t think that’s how you write a book.” She was absolutely right. It was terrible – a fine example of ‘telling’ instead of ‘showing’. I was grateful for her honesty and we laughed about it, then I tried again. I also started looking for writing groups in Paris where I live, and I found one on Saturday afternoons at the iconic bookshop – Shakespeare and Co, where anything from ten to twenty people would gather in a little room upstairs over-looking Notre Dame. Often the feedback was encouraging, but sometimes it was brutal – all part of the process, and as the writer you have to know how to sift through it, separating the truth from the misunderstood. I also went on a couple of writing retreats in Devon run by the Arvon Arts Foundation, which were brilliant and inspiring. I was on my way. Well, I was at the beginning of a very long journey anyway.

After about ten years it began to feel like I was going around in circles and was never actually going to get anywhere. I’d reached a point where was starting to think that I had no talent whatsoever; just a good story to tell. I may have lost faith in myself, but I never lost faith in ‘the story’.

Now, isn’t it strange how people step into your life just when you need them?  I joined a new writing group run by an author called Hazel Manuel. She listened carefully to me when I read from my chapters, and then she asked me that vital question, “what are you trying to do with this chapter?” Her questioning made me focus on my objectives for each chapter, which gave me new direction and made everything sharper. My book felt like it was gathering force.

A little later, one of my favourite authors, Sebastian Faulks, came to Paris to do some research for his book Paris Echo. With a few writing friends I went along to the American Library to hear him talk. Afterwards we had a brief conversation about writing. I asked him to sign a copy of his latest book, Where My Heart Used to Beat. He wrote, ‘Just write it down.’  And I did. More than a hundred times.

At the time, our writing group was being hosted every Tuesday on a beautiful barge that belonged to one of our members and was docked at Bastille. Dare we ask Sebastian Faulks to join us?

We did. And amazingly he accepted our humble invitation to lunch. After that Sebastian Faulks and I went on a World War II tour of Paris, organised specially by a journalist I had just met. Imagine that – walking around Paris, talking about World War II with Sebastian Faulks! For me it was a dream come true. Not least because this was the setting for my book. It felt like everything was falling into place.

At some point over lunch, I told him the plot of my novel. And then I held my breath. After a long moment’s pause, he said it was a lot to get into one book and would probably take about 120,000 words. Well, I thought to myself, I’m not actually writing a ‘Sebastian Faulks novel’, so I might be okay.

A couple of years later, just after I turned fifty, I sent the first fifty pages of my novel out to about five agents. I nearly didn’t bother sending it to CurtisBrown, thinking they were too big for an unknown writer like myself. Still I read the profile for each of the agents there, and when I read Sheila Crowley’s, I realised I had to try because her statement said she was looking for stories that moved her; that made her cry. Every time I read the ending to my book, I cried, so I dared to hope that it might make someone else cry too. It worked! She actually wanted to represent me! To say I was thrilled is an understatement.

I hadn’t quite realised back then that this was only the beginning of the journey towards publication, and together we worked on strengthening some of the characters and expanding several chapters; gradually the 90,000 words I had grew to 110,000 words. During this time, I carried on teaching four days a week at the International School; a job which I loved.

Fifteen months later, I was still perfecting the book, and I was beginning to doubt, once again, whether I would ever make it as a writer. I felt frustrated that I was teaching more than I was writing. Every minute I wasn’t writing felt like a minute wasted. Then one morning, before school started, I decided to take the plunge and ask right there and then for a sabbatical year, quickly before reason set in and I changed my mind.

Two days later Sheila left a message on my mobile for me to call her back. As soon as I had a free lesson, I phoned her. And I cried when I heard the news. I had a two book deal with Headline. Would I Iike to take it?

“Yes! Yes!” I screamed down the phone. “Take it! Take it!”

Needless to say, Champagne flowed that night, starting at the Irish pub in Neuilly where we teachers would often go on a Friday evening. And the following week I was in London meeting the team at Headline and my wonderful editor, Sherise Hobbs. They’d all read my book, and loved it! It meant the world to me.

Now my sabbatical year felt well-merited, and absolutely necessary as I had no second book yet. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that it had all become possible because I had dared to follow my dream of writing by asking for that sabbatical. But that was probably just coincidence. Quand Même. It felt, once again, like everything was falling into place.

So, last year was my first year of following my dream. And was it everything I dreamed of?

Yes. It was. Absolutely. I travelled to India with my faithful laptop that I inherited from my third son, and I wrote in a beach hut overlooking the sea, while sipping on mango and strawberry lassis. I wrote up in the mountains in an off the grid place after bathing in a secret little waterfall, and I wrote in a little ashram surrounded by trees. Then I after Christmas, I travelled to Mexico and wrote on a small horse ranch in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, the virus put an end to my travels, and I found myself at the end of March on a plane, with my son and his girlfriend, on the way back to Paris. Home.

Paris was already in full lock down and the next six weeks were spent at home. A strange time for everyone. Time to reconnect. Time to think. Time to cook. Time to read. Time to talk. Lots of time.

As one gets older and hits that marker of fifty, I think one realises that time is limited, and probably the most precious commodity we have. How I used to squander time when I was young, as if it were infinite! Now, I want to make every day count. I have set myself a few objectives, or dreams if you like, and I want to make sure each day brings me nearer to meeting them. But I also want to take the time to look around me and remind myself that I live in a beautiful world, and that it is a privilege and a miracle to be here at all.

With this in mind, I resigned from my very rewarding teaching position in a school I loved, deciding to devote my time to doing what inspires me most. Writing. Maybe this phase won’t last forever, and maybe one day I’ll go back to teaching, but at the moment it feels like the right thing to do.

So today, instead of going back to school, I sit here writing in my favourite place; my friend’s slightly wonky beach shack on the Isle of Wight overlooking the sea. It’s a grey day in late August and the tide is out, exposing all the stones, rocks and seaweed. And right now there’s nowhere I’d rather be, or anything I’d rather be doing.