Carrie Classon
One day, while passing a shop, I saw the most outrageous couch.
It was an old camelback couch – a loveseat, really, but with wide, rolled arms. It appeared to be an older piece of furniture that had been restored. The fabric was crazy. It was a patchwork of burned velvet fabric in brilliant hues. It was the brightest, craziest couch I’d ever seen, and it was being sold alongside art and sculpture, which made sense, because it really was a work of art.
I don’t know how stories come into being, but that brilliant couch, three years ago, left an impression on me.
I started writing a new book. The book was about a house that had lived in a small town by the river for 150 years and had, over the course of time, developed a fondness for the women who lived in it, especially its current tenant, Max. “What did Max do?” I wondered. And then I saw her making a couch very much like that one I’d seen, using crazy fabrics, and selling it to her art dealer, Bobby.
The story became “The Turnip House.” When it was finished, I sent it to my agent and, after editing it, we submitted it to my publisher. And we have just learned that they want to publish it.
Last week, my husband, Peter, and I were considering moving from our tiny and much-beloved apartment at Casa de los Soles. We decided not to move. We realized we could not stand to be away from this place that has become our home away from home. Since we are not spending money on a larger apartment, I was walking through La Fabrica, wondering how we could make our place a little nicer. Just as I was thinking this, I saw a couch very similar to the one that had inspired “The Turnip House,” the book that had just sold.
I went into the shop. “You had another couch,” I began, “but it was in brighter colors.”
The young woman did not look perplexed in the least. She headed off to the back of the store and indicated that I should follow her.
“No way,” I thought.
We climbed a flight of stairs. And there, sitting like it was waiting for me, was my couch. Except now, it was 40% off.
“Oh my gosh,” I said in English.
I came home and told Peter.
“If you like it, that’s all that matters,” Peter said. (Peter is wonderful that way.)
Then I asked Jorge, our landlord, if he’d mind if I replaced his couch with a new one. At first, he thought I was asking him to buy it.
“No! No,” I told him. “It’s a gift – to me.” And I told him the story.
Jorge smiled. “No problem!”
So today I am waiting. I should be getting the final contract for “The Turnip House,” which will make it all official. And I should be getting delivery of the brightly colored couch that inspired it. I’m not sure which will arrive first, and I guess it doesn’t matter. I know they belong together and are part of the same story.
Till next time,
Carrie
