Writing in French: A Challenge for an English Speaker


I remember the first time I held a French book in my hands. It was a collection of poems by Baudelaire, bound in a delicate blue cover. I’d always loved literature, but something about the rhythm and melody of the French language drew me in like nothing else. I was a young writer, full of dreams and hopes, determined to master this beautiful language.
My French wasn't bad; enough to hold a conversation, order coffee, and navigate through the bustling streets of Paris. Yet, reading Baudelaire in his native tongue was a different beast. The words seemed to dance on the page, each one carrying a weight and a history that my English mind struggled to grasp. It was clear that if I wanted to write a book in French, I had a long road ahead of me.
My journey began with a trip to Paris, the city of lights, the city of writers. I imagined myself sitting in quaint cafés, penning my thoughts as the world moved around me. But reality hit me hard. Translating my thoughts from English to French was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. My sentences felt clunky and awkward, lacking the elegance I so admired in French literature.
One day, while wandering through the Latin Quarter, I stumbled upon a small bookstore. Its wooden shelves were lined with books that seemed to whisper secrets of the past. I picked up a novel by Victor Hugo and tried to read a few pages. The words were familiar, but their arrangement was foreign. I felt like a child learning to read for the first time.
I decided to challenge myself. Each morning, I would write a short story in French. I wrote about anything that came to mind: the old man feeding pigeons by the Seine, the couple arguing in a corner café, the street musician playing his heart out. But every story felt incomplete as if something was lost in translation. I often found myself reaching for my English-French dictionary, frustrated by my inability to find the right words.
One particularly rainy afternoon, I sat in a café near Montmartre, staring at my notebook. The rain tapped against the window, a steady rhythm that matched my growing sense of defeat. Just as I was about to close my notebook, an elderly French woman approached me. She introduced herself as Madame Dupont, a retired literature professor. She had noticed my scribbling and asked if she could join me.
Madame Dupont became my mentor. We met every week, discussing French literature, dissecting sentences, and exploring the nuances of the language. She introduced me to the works of Camus, Proust, and Sartre, explaining the cultural context and the subtleties that made their writing so powerful. She encouraged me to think in French, to feel the words rather than just translate them.
Despite my progress, I still felt a disconnect. My stories lacked the soul I wanted them to have. Madame Dupont suggested I join a French writing workshop. Hesitant but hopeful, I signed up. The workshop was held at the Lutece Langue school, located on Rue Las Cases, in the VII district, very close to the Musée d'Orsay. Our instructor, Mrs. Candy Raluy, was a passionate teacher with a love for words. She pushed us to our limits, urging us to write with our hearts.
One exercise changed everything for me. Mrs. Raluy asked us to write about our most cherished memories, but we could only use simple, everyday words. No grandiose language, no complex structures. Just pure, unfiltered emotion. I wrote about my grandmother's garden, the smell of roses, and the warmth of the sun on my face. For the first time, I felt like I was truly writing in French.
The workshop taught me to embrace the simplicity and beauty of the French language. I learned to trust my instincts and let my emotions guide my pen. My stories began to flow naturally, capturing the essence of what I wanted to say. It was as if a door had opened, allowing me to fully immerse myself in the language I had come to love.
As my time in Paris came to an end, I realized that my journey was far from over. Writing in French would always be a challenge, but it was one I was ready to embrace. I left the city with a heart full of memories and a notebook filled with stories. I knew that one day, I would write a book in French, capturing the beauty and complexity of the language in every page.
Paris had taught me that writing is not just about words; it's about the soul behind them. And with every story I write, I carry a piece of that soul, hoping to one day share it with the world in perfect French.