The Writing Chateau

France, Postcard #1

Jun 12, 2025

Photograph of our writing retreat at Chateau Clair De La Lune by Floria Sigismondi

First off, a note to say that hearing so many friends and family – with such love and support in response to a story that was hard to write but a huge release to tell — made me double down on writing with fierce honesty. I had been ashamed to revisit humiliation, moments I mishandled, how I felt in the dark without clear answers – you embraced me, nonetheless. With little time to prepare for a month-long tour, I’m carrying a renewed appetite for writing with abandon, about struggles, deep joys, the abiding yet changing relationship I have with the creative process, and how making something of my feelings versus making something of my LIFE has changed over time. You’ve charged me with being brave enough to dare. It makes me want to sing.

You’ve also reminded me how important it is to talk in real ways about our lives, especially in the present moment, when we all need support making sense of the day-to-day. Not in Instagram posts, but as counterweight — we do not struggle alone in this life, and there is great potential and goodness in small kindnesses every day. Thank you for helping me to have more courage and reach a little further. Love tift

France Part 1 / The Writing Chateau

There is nothing so good as coming home from a tour to a skinny nine-year-old who throws their limbs around you in full run. The garden is overflowing with May: boulted cilantro, coreopsis, green beans, lettuce, amaranth, dill and fennel, gardenias, rain-heavy black-eyed susans. The refrigerator holds a grudge – stale cauliflower, pruned limes, outdated to-do lists on the door. A wine glass from two weeks ago sunbathes on the porch rail. Evidence of life in motion and a whole day to be jet lagged and do around the house an outcome expected — the gifts of traveling in France these past few weeks have yet to end.

When I was asked to be a part of a cross-cultural writing retreat in Biarritz, there was no hesitating on my part. I love France, I love being in Europe, I love village life, daily markets, roads named things like Street of the Little Red Hat. But I had no idea the loveliness that awaited me this go round. Dinners in San Sebastian, in traditional mountain farms and hidden cafes, from the finest seafood purveyors in town. Hot coffee and Basque gateaux for breakfast, a chateau full of American and French musicians on eight acres of overgrown vines and bay trees under careful watch of horses and the pale grey-blue Pyrenees. Friends saying, yes, hop a train, come visit anytime.

I was prepared for this exercise in togetherness to feel like a high school cafeteria. Like backstage at festivals where one band won’t look at the other band in the dressing room next to them, where cooler than is reasserted as frequently as possible. I’m a has-been mom academic who hasn’t put a record out in years. I was sure I was going to be sitting by myself as cool kids did the you’re so amazing, I’m so amazing, we’re so amazing routine for pictures. I’ve got music business ghosts in my pocket — I shudder at re-entering worlds of egos and usually prefer my messy kitchen table full of close friends. But at least I could practice speaking French.

Lawrence Rothman, Adele Jens & Daniel Taschen trading ideas in French and English.

Also, co-writing is not my thing. Writing is one of the most private things I do. When I am doing it well, I cry, I walk in circles, I talk to myself – I don’t want anyone to see that! My run-ins with the mainstream song machine in Nashville years ago left a mark of unease. I remember crossing paths with two other co-writers at a co-write I agreed to, the old college try. All the Nashville co-writers recognized each other in the parking lot.

“Whatcha doing!?”

“We just wrote a hit and now we’re going for a steak!” Everyone high-fived.

I’ll never get that scene out of my head.

The expectation of producing a song in quick turnaround feels like an internal betrayal to me, a factory methodology attending to what is most tender, wild, undefined — not to be trifled with. I attend to writing with rigor, editing; I’m a prose writer turned short form. I imagine writing to be something like a painter looking for a painting – a long, layered process. Putting words on feelings beyond words is not straightforward counting. You have to be brave enough to feel your way through the dark and lose your way. It’s not what you do with strangers. It’s what you do with your lover if you are lucky.

But in this ancient castle full of vaulted ceilings and windows thrown wide, I found myself laughing at break neck pace in broken French. Speaking seriously, in small circles, about stories we loved, what we feared about the world at present, how different countries care for artists, and how much our children had in common. What was happening in the United States was not isolated to our borders — we were all trying to make our little lives work in our little hometowns. Adele Jens told me she was excited to meet me because pop – her genre – doesn’t have many women with long careers. Batista W. Hamon sang Townes Van Zant he translated to French and nodded to me to come in on the harmony across the table. Talisco explained that I should skip Bordeaux – not interesting – and gave me advice about where to buy boots. Marissa LaVeaux and I sampled traditional Basque cider across the table and realized we had friends in common. Olivier of the Pyrenees-based folk duo Willo played open tunings to turn my own bashful. Morgane Imbeaud taught me to distinguish between Beauf and Un Bon Beauf and borrowed my Holga. In a studio set up in the billiard room, Lawrence Rothman and Daniel Tashien danced around the studio with me, planned band outfits for a late-night TV appearance and reminded me that I had actually done a few things right out there, that there was much more singing to do.

I am so grateful for that enchanted pause, for that kind encouragement.

Melissa Laveaux and I enjoying traditional Basque Cider post-writing

To close things down, we all gathered in the makeshift chateau studio and sang party backup vocals to a song Adele had been working on called J’adore. With a few days to myself when it was all over, I visited small seaside towns in the French Basque region, rented wetsuits and boards at the edge of every beach, ordered oysters and a glass of wine at Les Halles in Biarritz while counting baskets overflowing with bread, artichokes, sausages, tarts.

Other than being tackled by a my girl fawn at the cusp of fourth grade, re-entry is, of course, a bitch. I dread driving my big car, big supermarkets, news programs in English explaining how my country is being sold off to the highest bidder. I confront my inbox, the daily juggle to keep all balls in the air, the state of the world, my longings for my life, and the vacancies of my own that live at my home address.

But I brush all this aside for the now nearly last of the third-grade car pool morning runs.

Jean is not wearing the espadrilles I brought her, but she has made a baguette sandwich every morning since my homecoming for her lunchbox, inspired by market stories.

“Jean, could we move to France?”

“YES!” She nods. She is dreaming of patisseries. “Will I be able to walk to school?” Walking to school is the stuff of Jean’s dreams; public transportation is the stuff of mine. She tosses her backpack, heavy with important things like colored pencils, lip balm and journal entries into the car. Her skinny knees pop straight up the back of the passenger seat. “Mom, I think the zombie apocalypse is going to happen when my grandchildren are here.”

“You think?” I’m relieved and surprised we have that much time on this amazing planet before the end of days.

“Unless the robot invasion happens first.” She shrugs, hoisting the swollen blue backpack over a shoulder. She runs ahead without looking back, into a crowd of soccer jerseys and ponytails who could be of any language, any country, any one of us.