Frenchie the caravan

How a vintage caravan became a writer’s greatest Plan B.

‘When it comes to developing a worldview, we tend to face this false division: either you are a realist who says the world is terrible, or a naïve optimist who says the world is wonderful and turns a blind eye.

[Jack] Gilbert takes [a] middle way, and I think it’s a far better way: he says the world is terrible and wonderful, and your obligation is to joy. That’s why [his] poem is called ‘A Brief for the Defense’ — it’s defending joy. A real, mature, sincere joy — not a cheaply earned, ignorant joy. He’s not talking about building a fortress of pleasure against the assault of the world. He’s talking about the miraculousness of moments of wonder and how it seems to be worth it, after all. And one line from this poem is the most important piece of writing I’ve ever read for myself:

‘We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.’

This defines exactly what I want to strive to be – a person who holds onto “stubborn gladness,” even when we dwell in darkness. I want to be able to contain both of them within me at the same time, remain able to cultivate joy and wonder even at life’s bleakest.’

- Elizabeth Gilbert

APRIL, 2020

Plans have changed and I'm staying home in Australia for the foreseeable. I recently spent the morning researching office spaces/rentals to write my next book; my main character Esther Wilding and I have a marathon to continue together.

My brain has been slow as cold molasses processing the fact that this year isn't what we thought it would be. Workwise, it's no longer possible to undertake the travels for research I'd planned, or return to the UK anytime soon - to my friends/house/office/research I’ve been gathering there for Esther for two years. And it's been making me a bit sick with perspective-checked panic (holding everything validly yet lightly, in awareness of how fortunate I am that these are the most immediate Covid-related work changes I'm processing).

While researching alternate office options here, I began to feel the creep of anxiety and overwhelm, trying to find space that would allow me to work full time, while also stay close to my family, without adding to risks... The reality we all face with the longevity of social distancing.

In the middle of my anxiety-rising research, Mum came into the kitchen and just dropped some of her general motherly genius when she casually asked, Holls what about a caravan?

Me: 🤯🤯🤯

Cut to vigorous Internet searches, a lot of honking, synchronicities flying about like a squawking cockatoos, and a road trip 48 hours later with the whole family on board, including all five members with four paws each...

I became the owner of a 1968 Olympic Riviera caravan, named Frenchie.

On my first inspection of Frenchie, sitting at my potential future writing desk - Esther’s touchstone - I took my laptop, notebooks and pens to try it out, no mucking about. My partner Sam took this photo of me seconds after I sat down. Looking at it later I was relieved to see my future career possibilities in espionage are still intact: my feelings about Frenchie are clearly inscrutable.

We picked Frenchie up from the town where my Danish ancestors lived, worked, and are buried, who inspire Esther’s story. Where my grandmother lived yearning to be a writer, died and is buried. Where the sugar cane grows that inspired Alice Hart's childhood. Where another nearby town inspired Thornfield. I don't quite understand it, but, in searching for a place to bring Esther Wilding to life, Alice Hart and ancestral connections brought me full circle. In all of Australia, the most beautiful vintage caravan I’ve never dreamed of was just up the road, in the town where I have my strongest family connections.

Before we drove home with Frenchie literally in tow, I asked Mum:

Shall we go to the sugar cane?

Maybe my favourite thing about this photo now is what a dear friend said in response to seeing it: “Holly/Mum/Alice in the sugar cane in a picture I have longed to see. You can see her with you right?” The goosebumps I get every time I look at that space beside Mum now are unrelenting.

I drove home, thinking about Esther Wilding, Alice Hart, the energy in stories, trauma, recovery, hope, ancestral magnetism and the fairytale bones we sing to life every time we find the courage to, despite everything, trust in ourselves.

As I kept glancing backwards to make sure Frenchie really was floating home behind us — my future writing cocoon, Esther Wilding’s chrysalis — I thought about ‘singing over the bones’.

“To sing” means to use the soul-voice. It means ... the truth of one’s power and one’s need, to breathe soul over the thing that is ailing or in need of restoration … That is singing over the bones.

— Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estés

So, here we are. Frenchie and me. Set up, in our first week together, writing and dreaming on Yugambeh land. Encircled by Esther and her story world.

A WRITER’S CARAVAN: MAKING FRENCHIE MY OWN

I bought Frenchie completely restored and well-loved by her previous owners. There was very little to do to her to get her set up and ready to write in. We replaced a power point and bought the necessary gear to set her up level at my parents’ place. Aside from that, Frenchie very quickly showed herself to be the treehouse of my childhood dreams and I took to kitting her out with pure joy.

We changed the dining area into my desk space, added some bookshelves, turned the bed into a daybed area (for days when one can only write lying down), filled every empty space with plants, strung fairy lights, and set out all ephemeral treasures I’ve been gathering for writing Esther Wilding’s story. Following are some moments from my first year writing in Frenchie.

We’re settling into our writing routine together beautifully.

— May 18, 2020

creativity keeps the world alive, yet, everyday we are asked to be ashamed of honoring it, wanting to live our lives as artists. i’ve carried the shame of being a ‘creative’ since i came to the planet; have been asked to be something different, more, less my whole life. thank spirit, my wisdom is deeper than my shame, and i listened to who i was. i want to say to all the creatives who have been taught to believe who you are is not enough for this world, taught that a life of art will amount to nothing, know that who we are, and what we do is life. when we create, we are creating the world. remember this, and commit.

— nayyirah waheed

Mum’s been leaving gum blossom flowers on Frenchie’s gate post. We don’t talk about them yet they greet me every day when I walk down to Frenchie to write. I’m more emboldened when I sit at my desk because of them; I suspect it’s not a coincidence that to Alice Hart, gum blossoms mean enchantment. As a vitamin B shot does to energy levels, these little flowers do the mighty job of helping to raise courage in my blood.
To anyone else trying to honour creativity now, you’re not alone. Frenchie and I are right there in the trying with you.
May our wisdom be deeper than shame; we know that who we are and what we do is life. May we remember this and commit. Over and again.

— June 23, 2020

Sunset writing sessions from my desk in Frenchie on Yugambeh land.

Writing right now is a continuing paradox. Especially hard mentally (inner critic at height of powers during exhaustion, anxiety, sadness, stress...) and especially essential for heart (roaming in imagination is medicine). I advocate choosing creativity always. At the same time I’m deeply wary of any insistence that we must create during distress. That we’re doing lockdown or isolation or distancing or living wrong if we’re not writing or making or creating The Great Big Thing.

To walk the line when I’ve shown up at my desk, I’ve promised myself two things.

One is to remember that simply making room for my intention to create in a curious, caring way matters.

The other is to stay on the lookout for tiny awe and little wonders. It can be the sensation of feeling my lower back held by my desk chair while I’m sitting staring at blank page and blinking cursor. Or it’s the violet and alabaster colours and salty textures of the oyster shell I keep near my keyboard. Or the feeling of writing black ink on creamy paper in a new notebook.

Sometimes, it’s losing track of time and finding myself in Frenchie as a sunset burst changes the world. Sitting at my desk while gold light rolls over my wrists as I’m typing, a sense of awe and wonder overwhelms. Ushers in perspective. Soothes the inner critic and in newfound stillness says, LOOK, MAGIC IS STILL REAL. Before the gold fades I type a bit faster, I type whatever comes to mind. I lean into the free fall of it, emboldened. It’s shithouse writing! It’s still writing! Every word is a possibility, a doorway to a more polished idea! So I surrender, and just type, yearning to catch some of the vanishing light in the spaces between words on my page. In Esther’s story. I wonder if, later, when I’m editing, I’ll find gold dust.

After sunset, when the sky is deep and the stars are out, as I cross the paddock, I remember making space and holding intention is brave. Is the work. As is, occasionally, writing like a free bird with the sunset on her wings.

For anyone else who needs something golden, this is for you.

With love from me and Frenchie.

—26 July, 2020

If your nerve deny you—

Go above your Nerve—

- Emily Dickinson

Writing right now is especially paradoxical: impossible and essential.

So.

We go above our Nerve.

— 11 September, 2020

I have not ceased being fearful, but I have ceased to let fear control me. I have accepted fear as a part of life, specifically the fear of change, the fear of the unknown, and I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back, turn back, you'll die if you venture too far... In the past several years I have learned, in short, to trust myself. Not to eradicate fear but to go on in spite of fear.
— Erica Jong
🌙
Still going on, in spite of it.
I hope you are too, however you can.
I trust in the pounding of our hearts to drum up a ruckus louder than fear.

— October 12, 2020