Two Weeks in Orquevaux

On writing a novel, creative discipline, and life inside a French residency

I can barely find the words for how incredible my time as a writer in residency at Château Orquevaux was beyond “it is so choice.” What follows is a (polished up) day-by-day reflection captured in the first moments of the morning after…plus upon arrival at home.

If you’ve ever stepped away from your life to focus on a passion, I’d love to hear what changed for you during or after the experience.

I’ll go first…

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1

After a week fretting over how the western Netherlands handled its first major snowfall in recent memory, I caught my train to France. Arriving at Gare du Nord felt oddly like stepping back in time. My last visit to Paris was thirty years ago, and now I only had enough time to cross to Gare de l’Est, fumble through ordering a sandwich, and board the next train.

I’ve spent the last year trying studying Dutch, only to discover that everyone here speaks French, a language I haven’t studied since high school. When the conductor asked me to brighten my screen, I was suddenly back in that sweaty, nervous place where my language lessons in the Netherlands began…and the only words that sprang to mind were Dutch.

As we filed out of the train station in Chaumont, the world of eight billion distilled into twenty-eight. Those first conversations were all about what kind of work we do, so the early associations were our artistic passions and where we had arrived from. The enthusiastic staff piled our bags into a trailer and we squeezed in next to one another in three vans for the last leg through the countryside.

I applied to the residency because my husband William believes in me and said I should try. He is great like that. I had vacillated about what to do during the time. I considered writing my third Algorithm of Life novel, but find that I have no appetite for spending even another moment in a dystopian world right now. I thought about turning my mystery serial The Lost and Foundry into a novel, but I kept circling back to a pesky idea about a fable where a deer becomes a crow...

Over champagne and an array of cheeses, this group of strangers began the delicate work of becoming a cohort. Dinner was a no phone affair: beef bourguignon, Pinot noir, and conversations about artistic process that stretched long into the night. Back in my attic room at the gatehouse, I slid into the old metal bed and fell asleep wondering how to open the ornamental desk in the corner.

2

The first full day was one of orientation. After a light breakfast we learned about the château and the ten year history of the residency program. We were warned that Steve the swan has an irrational hatred for blondes and reminded for a third time not to feed the lord of the manor, an orange tabby named Dusty. We toured cellars, attics, and stables remodeled into workshops and studios.

I kept puzzling at the desk; I could feel it wanted to be opened. I asked if there was a trick and discovered it has a mechanism that unlocks the extendable writing surface. Watching Ziggy turn that key felt like the beginning of something magical, a tangible metaphor if you will. Sometimes we all need a literal click to release what has been waiting inside. The worn leather surface has clearly known other writers because the words flowed freely until dinner.

I wrote the prologue for this book over the “break where we didn’t celebrate Christmas” at the end of last year. In it, we meet our protagonist, Alexei, in his final days at State Academy in Moscow. On my first day in France, I wrote the chapter where he arrives in England to begin as a guest principal with the Royal Ballet.

That evening, over roast chicken and the “national fries” a few of us spoke about leaving our home countries. One woman speaks with just a hint of an Eastern European accent slipping through the radiant smile she wears despite the tragedy of her youth. Her story of being secreted out of Poland on a doctored visa put William and my choice into sharper relief.

We are all, in our own ways, searching for safer ground.

After dinner the words returned. I nursed a glass of a divine white Côte du Rhône and wrote well past my normal bedtime.

3

I woke before sunrise and watched the moon set through the old glass windows. The Château residency exists to give artists uninterrupted time to focus on making. I sat and wrote all day. I broke only for a croissant, an afternoon glass of wine, and to take pictures of the ladybugs that were crawling the studio walls.

I was told later they may have been lady beetles, but if so they were not at all aggressive and kept me company. It was the icky brown bugs with the loudly buzzing wings that I scooped into my empty potato chip bowl and tossed out the little Juliet balcony.

Talk about omens.

Over dinner we talked about how easily “real life” intrudes when you are in the thick of it. At home it is too easy to be distracted by chores and errands; here your only obligation is to yourself. Some years ago William and I took a trip to Spain and I made him change the password for my work email so I would not be tempted. At Orquevaux it never crossed my mind to open Slack.

There is something like a magic spell in this place…

4

One of the things I discovered after moving abroad was how the change settled into my body. A relaxation, a realignment, and the release of a tension I had not realized I was carrying because it lived so deep. My body stretched and unwound in a series of pops and clicks until so many of the spots of pain I had carried were smoothed back into motion. At night, I slept deeper than I have in years and with way fewer pills.

There is a similarity with the creative process and I am watching it happen in real time at the château.

In three days here, I’ve written nearly fifteen thousand words. I would not be this far without the preparation, of course, but I would not be anywhere near this deep into the work if I were “stealing hours.” It is a privilege to take two weeks and do this, one for which I will be forever grateful.

5

Another day at the little desk in the attic of the gatehouse—or gay house depending on who is asking. I have started enjoying strolls around the property, dotted with waterfalls and some of the outbuildings that come with an older estate. I have been more sedentary than ever; for me, writing is a stay in one place kind of activity.

At the open mic night, a mild-looking poet with a heart deep as a well stood up and wrecked me with her words. I told her later I could not decide which she slayed better, the reading or the knit dress she wore with a skirt that had just the right amount of flounce. Both were killer-diller.

I decided to share something too, fairly last minute. I read a satire about commercializing fresh air. A glass of white helped loosen the proverbial tongue though a few more syllables fell through than I might have imagined. My new friends made for the most welcoming arms into which to leap. The old floors thundered with feet and cheers of praise chased away the specter of the Nazi occupation of the building itself during the Second World War.

When was the last time you stopped and took a deep breath? Close your eyes. Take a deep inhale. Now, slowly exhale. What do you smell? What do you taste? We take the air around us for granted, forgetting that it’s the essence of our life force. Take another breath. Focus on the sensation of air filling your lungs and the way your body responds to it.

Now, ask yourself: is this the best there is?

The event was a wonderful reminder of how much talent has been drawn to this one place in the middle of nowhere. Seriously, the village is so small there is nowhere to buy annything except the château art store, open for only twenty minutes a day.

A visit to the château wine cave, open on a similar tight daily schedule, has become something of a dinner hour ritual. Many of us open bottles and sit in the salon to chat and share stories before the meal bell rings. Laughter and tears come naturally; the tapestry paneled walls holding us close as they have for cohorts of artists before us.

6

Of course I spoke too soon. Just after I noticed the momentum, it slipped between my fingers. Rather than forcing it or calling it writer’s block, I stopped watching the clock, lingered in bed, and took a slow walk beyond the château’s gates.

I smelled old stone and firewood stacked in dusty stacks deep enough to keep years of night chill at bay. Apparently the man who built the château wanted to be able to see a castle from his house, so he made one to look at. I didn’t get a picture of it because the woman working in the front garden gave me one glare that indicated she was ill-inclined to let me loiter.

Returning to the desk, I was delighted to find the rhythm was back.

The process of wrestling a novel into existence is astonishing, and each time I attempt it I gain a clearer sense of the whole while I am still in the midst of creating it. I am a huge fan of this story, and even with a detailed outline I keep finding opportunities to deepen the work and take it further than I expected. Instead of searching for threads to use, I can focus on weaving them together.

Loathe as I am to admit it, I may be officially reformed from my pantsing ways.

7

Everyone is finding their rhythm, working at different hours and orbiting the château dining room for mealtimes. It is fascinating to have traveled all this way only to sit at the antique writing desk day after day. Like this group in residence, my whole world has narrowed to the book I am writing and little more.

Mid-January 2026 is also a particularly interesting time to be cocooned in a protective bubble, considering that if we hadn’t moved to the Netherlands, William and I would have been living in Minnesota.

I have been disciplined in pouring myself into the project, consistently focusing on one if not two chapters a day and far surpassing my best pace to date. Perhaps it is not only a matter of time on the clock but also about head space. Sitting at the computer is one part of it; the freedom to focus on nothing else is the other.

The “pencil sketching” phase I completed before arrival meant I had made a lot of the hard plot choices already; a lesson I learned from my first two books. Unfortunately, sometimes you the writer need to know a rich and detailed backstory that you’ll never actually tell the reader because it’s boring for them to digest the things you needed to puzzle out simply to immerse yourself in the world.

In my ballet fable story, Aleksei is a character who struggles inside his body, experiences emotions somatically rather than intellectually which has been an exciting challenge to attempt.

The company call begins in Studio B for warm-up. I arrive to bodies rising and lowering, bending and arching as everyone performs their own private ritual of preparation. The room hums with breath and friction, the familiar sounds of skin against fabric, foot against floor.

The room carries the same charged quiet as the final moments before the Academy showcase at the Bolshoi, each of us preparing for a future we could never predict. Each of us focused on what we would dance. The notes we were given.

I catch myself marking a transition that hasn’t been set yet, my body preparing for a moment that does not exist. The impulse arrives, then stalls. I stop, reset my stance, tell myself to stay where I am.

The unknown has a way of creeping into the body.

The strangers with whom I arrived have rapidly become friends. The hesitance of the early days has been replaced by a common delight in doing the things that bring us joy (which for me did not include a ride on the paddle boat, FYI). The ritual of setting the work aside for a few hours of wine and conversation, however, remains a welcome punctuation in the creative day.

8

The weather turned cold again, morning mist covering the little village I can see from the gatehouse window. It really does feel like the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast…which is funny because we watched La Belle et La Bête at least once a semester in high school French class.

In Orquevaux, the fog makes everything soft and a little secretive.

The possibility of finishing a full draft of this book is still in sight, though this morning I needed an extra hour of mindless time before I began. I have never been one to believe in writer’s block; to me, there are simply periods when I am not meant to write. Still, it is easier to push through the resistance when you are in the stillness of a place like this.

By now I am into act two of the book, which means I get to listen to a new playlist. I made five (prologue, acts one through three, and coda) featuring ballet-inspired music both classical and modern. Aleksei struggles trying to understand a more fluid style, and the music helped me move with him through the scenes.

I stretch idly, purposely exuding a comfort I do not feel. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for my toes. I try to replay the sequence in my mind.

Where did I lose them?

Where did I rush?

Where did I hold when I should have yielded?

My legs don’t know the answers.

The room buzzes with quiet conversation, but none of it touches me. I feel suspended, caught between humiliation and determination. Every muscle in my body hums with the effort of holding myself together.

9

My most productive day thus far yielded two more chapters for a total of nearly eight thousand words. I’ve built a steady rhythm, arriving at the daily target with a clarity that feels almost mechanical. The story is finally taking on the life it needs to be more than the researched, plotted skeleton with which I arrived.

Someone suggested we all raid the cellar costume closet and “dress for dinner.” I could hear my mother calling me a party pooper if I didn’t at least put on something…and I’ve always loved a cloak. In battered old gowns, tricorn hats, and frock coats we gathered with a high dose of frivolity born from the freedom we’ve been given. The evening was stolen by the recent American‑turned‑Irishman in a Borat‑style pantyhose contraption and the Kiwi in a top hat and pink wig that made me think of Lil Kim. The salon rang with laughter; the clink of glasses and the rustle of taffeta made the evening feel like a private carnival.

And we ate cake.

Everyone knows the end is approaching, but none of us want to admit it. I’m still that rigid child underneath, the one who remains focused on the novel’s goal, so I slip away to the attic room at the gatehouse to edit early after dinner. The tiny balcony looks down, rather expectedly, on the gate; when decamping for their accommodations in the village, the Aussie and the Kiwi call out. The first night it was a recitation of Romeo and Juliet, this time it was a serenade of “Danke Schoen.”

10

Another day in paradise at the desk in the attic of the gatehouse, where I wrote another two chapters and left only three to go before I reach the end of the outline. There will be months of editing and reframing to come; still, the time has yielded what I had hoped it would. I don’t do New Year’s resolutions the way I used to, instead I set an intention or a challenge for growth. This year it was to keep making time for my writing practice.

This time is the perfect jumpstart to that promise.

Between writing sprints I posed in a distressed old ball gown and a leather bunny mask made by one of the artisans, photographs taken by a fellow resident. I somehow managed to execute a few moves that looked ballet‑esque and, being me, requested a shot of me lifting the skirt of the gown. I can’t say my technique was perfect, but I was looser there than I might have been anywhere else.

We’ve begun to discuss the business of leaving, a conversation I had hoped to skip simply to have the excuse of never being told about the protocol. Apparently, they’ve heard that trick before. In the hour before dinner, when the wine flows, connections that were forged here have deepened exponentially. One of the other writers noted that before arriving this scenario would have been a literal nightmare. I couldn’t help but agree; both of us shared the revelation that the experience had truly put those fears to rest.

For confirmation, see the bunny mask story above.

11

Only a few days ago the residency cohort stood awkwardly in the room known as Esther’s Bath, named for the large custom tapestry depicting the scene. When the celebration and ceremony of closure began, that same room became a flurry of conversation and the model of ease. We knew one another now, deeply and in a way that surprised me.

After the reception, the writers made short presentations of work produced during the residency. Each of my fellows commanded the room with their own unique magic, some speaking languidly and others slamming, all bolstered into a better version of ourselves by the genuine love reflected back.

Dusty got caught sneaking into Esther’s Bath to eat the remains of the cheese.

It was odd to read something still so young in front of others, and nearly impossible to choose a selection that fit the allotted time. When I read a piece of short fiction early on, I felt nerves; at the final presentation I was calm and eager to share because I knew I would be standing in front of friends who wanted to listen.

After the ten p.m. quiet hours, the party moves into the damp cool of the old house’s cellars, which everyone has come to call “the dungeon.” My only night in attendance reached its peak when the Kiwi and I raided the costume closet and I donned a faux fur coat and a demonic teddy bear mask. The brick cavern felt conspiratorial and alive, the kind of place where the day’s seriousness loosened into mischief and the bonds we’d formed buffed to a shine through laughter and ridiculousness.

What began with mojitos and ended in champagne left echoes that lingered well into the following morning…

12

Lucas said they drink to calm their nerves. To celebrate arriving at this moment, where the rehearsals are complete and we begin to perform.

I never want to drink again.

I study the photo once more. In their smiles, I see the inside jokes I do not understand. The practiced cheer. The false encouragement, based on nothing and offering even less.

I turn the phone face down without replying.

This time, I do not try to sleep again.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I must prepare.

The last days are flying past. As a culmination of our time, we toured the visual artists’ studios, and I was in awe of the talents on display. From watercolors both ethereal and realistic to incredible mixed media works, the variety and stylistic idiosyncrasy felt powerful and alive.

I was awestruck by my sophisticated friend from the desert and her abstractions, where I could see mystical echoes surfacing. My roommate in the gatehouse composes meaning from form with an unimaginable deftness. Having the works displayed in the rooms where they were made, some where the paint ran right off the page and down the wall, only added to the immediacy of the experience. Much like hearing writers read their words, viewing the pieces in this way felt like a window into the makers; I could see personality and passion emanating from the work.

Because this is France, we celebrated with more wine and cheese.

Dinner was a real turning point, everyone hopping from table to table to share reflections and words of affirmation. The ghost of departure loomed like Dusty pawing at the dining room window, but it could not quite pierce the warmth in the room. The Aussie and the Kiwi sang me a sea shanty before bed, their voices carrying the salt and humor of long voyages.

13

A last full day, and I finished the final chapter of the first draft. I cannot believe the discipline and determination it took to get there, but it is a sure sign that this book was inside me and needed to get out.

We drifted through the château collecting the sketchbooks and tarot cards left lying around. We traded art and photographs, hugged often, and scribbled wishes in the big guest book in the foyer. There was a heartfelt champagne toast and a dinner that was less a meal than a sprawling event no one wanted to formalize or begin because doing so meant it would eventually come to an end. The room was crowded by the weight of returning to the real world.

In days like these we need art more than ever, vibrant reminders of the world’s beauty in the face of a darkness that threatens to overshadow it.

While packing, I kept a chunk of limestone, split by a bad-ass sculptor who invited everyone to help chisel away bits of marble from a block that soon became a rounded vase. I tucked a wine cork into my bag as well, another small talisman of a time that reshaped me.

Dozens of hugs, some rib‑crunching and others tear‑streaked, were hardly enough for the moments of our genuine selves that emerged through our time. The light we shared here will be carried forward into whatever comes next: the power of creation, the celebration of artistic passion, and the overwhelming love that arises when people let down their guards and truly see one another.

The Kiwi serenaded me with Prince all by her lonesome.

14

Rising before the sun, the second group of departures packed our hand luggage with croissants and a few last pieces of the perfect baguettes. I was not ready to leave the experience behind, but I was glad to be returning to the Netherlands. Many heading back to America were thin-lipped at the prospect.

We rattled and bounced through the morning fog in a van that offered nothing to absorb the shocks of reentry. At the same small country station where we had filtered out of anonymity and become a group of friends, we steered clear of topics that might stir the tears lying just beneath the surface as the chance of a lifetime was ending. The chill wind on the platform made us eager for the train, the only time any of us actually wished for the spell to break.

I edited the whole way back to Paris, finding plenty of ways to strengthen and deepen the work. After more hugs, I stowed my suitcase in a souvenir shop and walked over to see Sacre Coeur just to feel a bit of the City of Light before heading for the other Gare. The Eurostar passed through rain twice in Belgium before we reached Rotterdam where I simply walked across the platform and boarded the next sprinter bound for The Hague.

My reunion with my family was amazing; I kissed my husband a lot and was promptly sat upon by the big cat while the small one rolled over for belly pets. Home is a good place to land after an incredible, almost camp-like, creative bonding experience.

If this piece made you think of someone you know, please share it in case they, too, need permission to make the time to do something like this.

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