by Chris Pavone
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“This book would not exist without” is a phrase that has a very loud ring of inauthenticity. For this book, it’s demonstrably true:
The Paris Diversion is my fourth published novel, but I’ve also written bits and parts and entireties of others that are lying around, as if in long-term care, awaiting a new drug or a revolutionary surgery that will breathe fresh life into them. As we’re reminded every day, life is short. I haven’t yet gotten around to removing some metal ornaments that we found screwed to our garage when we bought an old house, back when the kids were infants; they’re now in high school. I won’t have the time to pursue every single book idea.
I’ve spent all of my forties—a decade when we’re supposed to know important things about ourselves—writing novels, but I still don’t have a solid answer to this fundamental question: how do I choose which books to write, which not?
A few years ago, I was happily writing a completely different fourth novel. Midsummer arrived, and my wife took the kids to remote Ontario for an annual week-long vacation that as a rule I choose to skip. This Canada trip coincides roughly with my birthday, and Madeline’s gift was sending me by myself to Paris, where as soon as I arrived an entirely new book idea intruded on my consciousness, urgently, merging an old idea—an apparent terrorist attack that turns out to be something else—with my long-simmering desire to write a sequel to The Expats, and a new impulse to set a novel in Paris.
I started immediately, with a laptop in a café in St-Germain-des-Prés every morning, then setting out for the afternoon. I didn’t have any responsibilities. I didn’t need to worry about anything, not the kids, the dog, the house, bills, taxes, inexplicable sinkholes in the driveway. I could free my mind completely, and immerse myself in these characters, in this story, trudging mile after mile, stopping on street corners to scribble notes. Over the course of a few days, the entirety of The Paris Diversion resolved itself—every plot twist, all the characters, the most important scenes and reveals and red herrings. It all became clearer and clearer to me, more and more exciting. Each night after dinner, I’d open the computer and write some more.
This was my most productive week of work ever, and it was a gift to me from my wife, who has always allowed me ample space to pursue this second career that I’d chosen to hurl myself into in midlife, when I could no longer countenance the idea of going to an office every day. This was an irresponsible, indulgent, irrational choice that I’d made, but she supported me without hesitation or criticism or the barest hint of doubt.
Thank you, Madeline McIntosh.
* * *
In the middle of that Paris week, I went to have a drink with Sylvia Whitman at Shakespeare & Co., and I ended up staying for five hours, talking to regulars who came and went, and Sylvie’s husband and son and dog, seeing this whole expat life laid out, in this remarkable bookshop that hosted events in the place facing Notre-Dame, and the stream of visiting authors, and the tumbleweed kids reshelving books, the whole terrific operation guided by this wonderful principle: be open to new people, be welcoming to strangers. It seems so obvious as a decent, deliberate way to go about life. But it’s not usually a business plan.
I was struck with a newfound sense of the enormous importance of deliberateness, about everything. I spent the rest of the week focused on how The Paris Diversion should relate to The Expats, and what the themes of the new book would be, and whether it should really be the next thing I wrote, and why the book should exist in the world.
Productivity isn’t just moving forward; it’s also figuring out which direction to move in.
Thank you, Sylvia Whitman.
* * *
After I’d turned that week’s frantic scribbling into a hundred pages of readable manuscript, I sent it to my literary agent, David Gernert, who was already in possession of a hundred pages of that other novel I’d been working on.
The business of book publishing revolves around the judgment of individual people; almost everything is subjective, matters of taste. I think one of the hardest choices for everyone is figuring out whom to trust, about what, and this is especially true for authors: whom we trust can make all the difference.
I first met David more than a quarter-century ago, when he was editor in chief of Doubleday and I was a junior copy editor. He was the supreme authority, the person in charge. I’m now (alarmingly) a lot older than David was back then, but for me he’s still the authority, and there’s no one I trust more about editorial matters or publishing ones, and possibly everything else too.
So I asked David: which of the two different 100 pages do you prefer? His answer was the book I was calling Diversion (he didn’t think the title was quite right), and that’s why you’re holding this one.
Thank you, David Gernert.
* * *
And now, the more traditional acknowledgments:
These people provided invaluable feedback on early drafts: Ned Baldwin, Layla Demay, Jack Gernert, Kathryn Lundstrum, Libby Marshall, Libby McGuire, Alex McIntosh, Hannah Marie Seidl, and my editors Lindsay Sagnette at Crown in New York and Angus Cargill at Faber & Faber in London. Sincere thanks to all of them, and also to everyone who helped turn the manuscript into a book: Chris Brand, Caspian Dennis, Rose Fox, Rebecca Gardner, Elina Nudelman, Mary Anne Stewart, and Heather Williamson.
My novels have all been published simultaneously by Crown and Faber, and I’m immensely grateful for the years of support—expertise, enthusiasm, and energy—from everyone at both houses, and especially the essential handful who’ve been working with me since the very beginning: Sarah Breivogel, Terry Deal, David Drake, Maya Mavjee, Steven Page, and Molly Stern.
* * *
Finally, a note about facts:
There is no International School of St-Germain; the Louvre’s real-life security measures do not exactly match those depicted herein; I’m unaware of any bookstore that features an escape hatch built during the Occupation; it’s not so easy to short-sell stocks anonymously; et cetera. These are purposeful deviations for legal, ethical, and dramatic reasons. I didn’t try to write a guidebook to Paris, nor a manual for perpetrating a terror attack or manipulating securities. This is just a novel.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHRIS PAVONE is the New York Times bestselling author of The Travelers, The Accident, and The Expats, winner of the Edgar and Anthony awards for best first novel. He was a book editor for nearly two decades and lives in New York City with his family.
To continue reading about Kate Moore, please go to www.PRH.com/The-Expats.
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