Sharon Harrigan

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Writing Lessons I Learned From Pandas and Dragons

My nine-year-old daughter just entered two writing contests. “I hope I win,” she told me yesterday.

“So do I,” I said. “But the odds are that you won’t. And if that happens, it doesn’t mean your story isn’t good.”

One of the contests is run by the American Library in Paris, and I have no idea how many entries were received and how good they were, but I imagine the competition is stiff, and I told her so.  The second contest I have more insight into. I am 1 of 12 judges, so I know that 161 entries were submitted and only 30 can win, fewer than 1 in 5. I also know that most of them are competently written. I couldn’t just sort them into “good” and “bad” because so many were good. I had to use a different kind of filter.

When you read so many pieces, especially when they’re all on the theme of Asia, they tend to blend together. If most people write a fairy tale beginning with “once upon a time,” the first person who doesn’t will get my attention. If nearly everyone has a panda or dragon (or both) in the story, the first person who writes about a hamster or a ham sandwich (or anything besides pandas and dragons) will earn my gratitude. If half the entries include a quest with a riddle, then the first one that doesn’t will seem like the solution to my every problem. And if you tell me something I don’t know (for instance, that kindergarten girls in Tokyo take the subway to school by themselves, with GPS devices embedded in their backpacks) I will follow you anywhere on the planet, for pages and pages, to learn more.

Maybe it was harsh of me to tell my daughter her chances are not good. But 1 out of 5 is much better than the odds I face. For example, when I received an acceptance letter from the journal Pleiades, the editor told me they publish 5 to 10 stories per year and receive over 5,000 submissions. The odds are 1 in 500, at best.

What I learned, as a writer, from this contest can be summed up in two words: Surprise me.

What I learned, as a person, is more complicated. Did I choose the best stories and poems? Yes, if “best” means the result of one idiosyncratic person’s subjective filters. No, if “best” means all the others are not as good. I rejected stories that other people will like more than the ones I chose. I couldn’t choose all that were good enough to win.

I’ll explain this all to my daughter once the results are announced. I’ll also try to remind myself, next time I’m rejected. It’s a useful thing to know. Not just for writing, but for life.

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Naked Perfume Hunk: Meet Naked Handbag Babe

We’ve had a lot of guests for spring break. “You know what we saw in the metro station?” my nieces said at dinner the other day. “People without clothes.”

I had almost stopped noticing. It’s always fun to see Paris from a fresh visitor’s point of view.

The two specimens my nieces were most intrigued by are the Naked Perfume Hunk and the Naked Handbag Babe. Equal opportunity nudity.

The Hunk lounges on a polar bear rug, wearing nothing but a black-and-white striped scarf over one shoulder. (The French do love their scarves.) One hand presses on the ice, which he melts because he is so hot. A large perfume bottle, shaped like a naked male torso with a conspicuous bulge sits in the foreground. The model’s forearm somewhat obscures the part of his body that, were it hung in the Louvre, would be covered by a fig leaf.

The Handbag Babe sits on the floor, completely naked, a designer purse the only thing blocking the area often covered here by tiny, lacy lingerie. The background is empty and the only text reads “500 Euros.”

The Hunk’s ad is over-the-top masculinity. The Babe’s is mysterious. Primal meets Minimal.

Sometimes, when I see the two ads across from each other, one on my side of the tracks, one on the other, I imagine they’re flirting. Maybe they’re making a date. Once the stations close at midnight, she invites him to her non-icy abode, and he shares his scarf. She spreads open her handbag and an entire picque-nique appears from inside—baguette, foie gras, and champagne. He snatches his polar bear rug to use as a tablecloth. They joke about the handbag, how it’s a metaphor for that piece of female anatomy it obscures in the ad.

They munch their meal and laugh at us, the passengers, whom they’ve stared at throughout the day. “You know what I saw at the metro station?” they ask each other, giggling. “People with clothes.”

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Instant Parisian: Just Add Scarf

My three teenage nieces came to visit Paris for spring break, clad in fuzzy yellow fleece and sports team logos, carrying bulky nylon school backpacks. It was fun to see them transform into Parisians, accessory by accessory.

First came the change in totes, borrowing a trim black leather backpack to carry their guidebooks and phones. Then, off came the swim team ski caps, exchanged for a plain black hat or nothing at all. The hair rolled up into chignons. They each bought a cotton scarf. Et voila! Instant change from suburban American teens to in-the-know French jeunes filles.

I’m not the kind of person who thinks that what you look like equals who you are. Anyone who’s seen me get ready for the day in five minutes knows that. And yet, fashion is part of culture, so learning about French dressing (and I don’t mean the kind that goes on a salad!) is part of learning about life outside your backyard.

The first time I ever left America I was about the same age as my nieces. My Uncle Dennis generously allowed me to accompany his basketball team to Sweden. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the trip completely changed my view of the world and of myself. I immediately started to dress differently. My host family gave me a trim corduroy jacket to replace my bulky down one. And I bought a colorful scarf. It didn’t cost much, but it wrapped me up in much more than cotton. It enclosed me in everything cosmopolitan and global, in a world so much bigger than the one I knew before.

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Fire Fighter Fashion

My husband James and I cycled next to each other on stationary bikes at our local Paris gym. “Have you noticed all the fire fighters?” he asked.

I shook my head. How had I missed that?

“The scene in the locker room was like something out of a gay porn film,” he said. “Firefighters stripping out of their rescue gear.”

Thirty minutes later, I caught sight of them hovered around the bicep curl and hip extensor machines. They were dressed in identical gym uniforms of clingy shirts outlining every chest muscle and minimal shorts emblazoned with the logo “Sapeurs Pompiers Paris.” Parisian fire fighters. I dare you to to come up with three hotter words.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that their outfits were not only athletic and practical. They were elegant, stylish, and color-coordinated. Classic heroic chic.

James and I heaved and grunted, getting more stinky and sweaty, as usual. The fire fighters seemed to enjoy everyone’s stares. I can’t have been the only person imagining what would happen if I “accidentally” dropped a weight on my foot, necessitating an urgent rescue from half a dozen men trained in mouth-to-mouth rescusitation. Men who, because their job is to save lives, are strong and competent. Men who, because they’re Parisian, are impeccably groomed and dressed. Where else, but in this belle ville, can you get that combination?

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No Tantrums on Air France

My friend (whom I’ll call G) has lived in Paris most of her life, except for a recent six-year sojourn in Houston. Over the Christmas break, she and her children returned to Texas for two weeks, and her four-year-old (whom I’ll call S) returned to American ways. S knows that no matter how democratic America says it is, the children there rule like kings and queens.

A combination of jet-lag, fatigue, restlessness, (and perhaps French baguette-withdrawal symptoms) caused S to throw some tantrums during their vacation. Time-outs are hard to manage in the middle of Wal-Mart or Starbucks, and corporal punishment is as socially unacceptable in the U.S. as loud noise in cafes would be in France. So S sometimes got away with things in the Wild West.

Once they boarded their plane, though, the rules changed. S started to whimper over a petty grievance, the wrong color cup or a broken cracker. G could see he was gearing up for a scene. “No more tantrums,” she told him. “We’re on Air France.” So what? he said with his face.

“We’re in France now,” she explained, even though they would spend the next ten hours in limbo between countries. “That means I can spank you and nobody will tell me not to.” S quieted, his foot-stomping, nay-saying machine turned off just by the threat of discipline, a la francaise.

Tantrums are so infrequent in France there isn’t even a specific word for them. People use the word crise, which means crisis.

The French are more physical, in general. Friends, male or female, kiss each other hello and goodbye. Children push and shove and grab and kick, and their parents don’t tell them not to, according to my daughter. If you ask whether children are better behaved here, she will say, “To adults maybe, but not to each other.”

Even though I live in France, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to hit a child. I’m still squeamish about kissing people, too. But I like the idea of quiet cafes. I’m even more tempted by the prospect of a silent flight, all children “sage comme des images,” still as pictures. Next time, I’m flying Air Frace.