Odessa's Oddities & Curiosities | Week of 7/28/2025

Dear friends,

I thought I would try something new and give you a little tl;dr at the top of my newsletter. An offering to our ever-shortening attention spans. (For the longest time, I did not know what tl;dr stood for with that mystifying semi-colon. For those like me, it means: too long; didn’t read)

tl;dr: some thoughts on the spirituality of writing, some recommendations, highlights + photos from Venice & Vienna, some more Parisian curiosities

As I recently told my writing group (which, squeal! I love my writing group so very much), I’ve been writing like my ass is on fire. Ahem, they joyfully noticed the phrase is “like a fire was lit under my ass”. My simile connoted something more like gastrointestinal distress than the amount of words I’ve written this week. We cackled.

On that note, I’ve been wanting to write something for a while on how we talk about writing, creative writing. I’ve noticed, especially in my Literary Production class last semester that even the most secular writers talk about their writing in mystical terms. Characters speak to them. They are chasing the story. They are tapping into the larger web of creativity.

The religion of writing is what I’m really interested in, especially given how debates about AI have thoroughly emphasized this idea that writing is thinking. To offboard your writing to AI is to atrophy your thinking muscle. I don’t intend to debate that point (I do think it has merit), but I am more interested in this spiritual sensation of writing. I mean, I totally buy it. Writing novels consumes me. I trust my characters more than I’ve trusted any God-concept (perhaps that is very ego-centric of me). I’m all about the spiritual lingo when I talk about writing, but I’ve recently become hyperaware of it. I relish in it.

My favorite thing to ask visiting writers last semester was some variation of Do you feel spiritual about your writing process? I found most did. I’ve been collecting the metaphors people use—how they picture their writing process. In my head, I’m always back at Slide Ranch as a seven-year-old at that yurt on the edge of the cliff by the ocean, at the edge of the world, really. Sitting at a giant loom, drawing yarn and pulling and weaving and searching. Then, we come back to AI and LLMs. How does ChatGPT meld with writing as an act of stretching out into the ether, snaring the words out there down onto the page? Where does it disrupt that fantasy? Where does it lean in?

I personally love using ChatGPT as feedback, as a coach. I understand Chat complements me well (and compliments me well, if we’re being honest). I understand that Chat will be too kind at times (like humans tend to be), and often loses sight of longer threads, but Chat also holds me to logic, notes where I’ve lost steam, where a scene drags. I have some hesitancy to admit this duet I have with ChatGPT when it comes to my novel. I only hope it doesn’t make anyone question whether the novel is mine.

I want all your thoughts. Are you spiritual about your writing process? What are your internal metaphors when you think about writing? Where does AI fit in? Where does it disrupt?

On the thread of AI, this insightful essay from Leif Weatherby on ChatGPT as a model of entertainment.

Freakonomics did an excellent 3-part series on live theater which has been living Rent-free in my head (a horrible, horrible pun that I couldn’t bring myself to delete). Super interesting dive into the economics of live theater—will definitely make you appreciate performances more. There was an excellent discussion of the theater as gossip. What could be more exciting to the human mind than to sit in a dark room, with other humans, and overhear well-scripted drama.

In the spirit of a newsletter as a journal and a missive: a few recent highlights.

Swimming in the Seine. Paris recently opened up the banks of the Seine to swimmers, a promise since the Paris Olympics were announced. And the joy, the exhilaration of taking to the water…wow. Then, I laid out on the beach chairs to relish in the sun and read Moby-Dick.

Noah, Medad, Maya, and I picnicked at the Eiffel Tower for Bastille Day to watch the fireworks. First, I totally teared up at the French National Anthem immediately thrown to that scene in Casablanca. The fireworks and drone show were spectacular. Life highlight, definitely.

Noah, Medad, and I left for Venice the next morning, which was, of course, very important research for my novel. There was lots of giggling, oodles of pasta, one very short gondola ride, and many free samples at Nino & Friends. We visited the synagogues of the Jewish ghetto, where the Italian attendant insisted I cover my shoulders with this sheer-ish cloth and my knees. Thank you, random Italian woman, for enforcing the modesty standards of my own religion. I’ve attached that ridiculous image below.

We stayed at this hostel that was formerly the ruins of a church. Then, we were onto Vienna, city of many, many museums. I got to see The Tower of Babel, and one of my favorite paintings of all time in person: The Hunters in the Snow by Bruegel (spend ten-minutes with the painting (and the NYT here)). The Kunsthistorisches Museum is fantastic and deeply overwhelming.

We discovered this fabulous contraption at a Viennese cafe, which perfectly holds the newspaper up, using only one hand, so the other can be used to gobble down Apfelstrudel, of course.

Then, god, The Kiss. Sometimes, with famous art, I feel underwhelmed in person. Seeing the Mona Lisa in that crowded room is not really a pleasant experience. But The Kiss by Gustav Klimt took my breath away. Just staggering. The Upper Belvedere Museum has an excellent collection of modern art.

In Vienna, I was telling Noah and Medad that my mom had a song that she would sing to me every night before bed. I flat-out refused to fall asleep without it. It had magic within it, of course. I sang it for them, per request, and they immediately noted that it was to the tune of a famous Viennese lullaby by Brahms. Very much to my surprise (and my mom’s!) Some cultural osmosis at work.

And I have some more Parisian curiosities for you.

First, the Mundolingua museum is a dated but astonishing experience. Deeply interactive, and perhaps more interesting if you aren’t already a language nerd.

Did you know that a majority of the world’s languages are tonal? That whistled languages can be heard at longer distances? (e.g. Silbo Gomero of the Canary Islands)? Americans have the largest proximix (accepted distance between people when talking). Clusivity refers to whether ‘we’ includes the listener — in English, we have uncertain clusivity. They had this great book on words in other languages that are untranslatable to English—a delight to flip through. Some examples:

commuovere from Italian: to be moved to tears by a story

samar from Arabic: to stay up late with friends

feuillemort from French: the color of a dying leaf

Second, are you familiar with the cult of French skincare? It’s something about French regulation and French beauty standards and perhaps that sweet French air that is conducive to baguettes (I have no fucking clue). But it is a craze. And Americans come to Paris to stock up, because it is marginally cheaper here. I’ve actually found pharmacies to be incredibly pricey here, except this one notable cheap pharmacy by St. Germain called CityPharma. And boy, that place was mobbed. It felt like a cultural experience, getting elbowed in pursuit of the best Vitamin C serum that was in fact 3 euros cheaper than normal. C’est la vie.

Third, Parisians are obsessed with cycling. And I’m obsessed with people being obsessed with things. Maya and I hunkered down in the rain to watch (or rather, catch glimpses) of the Tour de France yesterday. A sport that Ernest Hemingway felt like even he couldn’t quite capture, so I will not be trying.

Fourth, today I visited the Cité de l'architecture et du patrimoine, well I sort of stumbled upon it. I meant to go to Musee de l’Homme, but my eye got caught on the word architecture. And what a gem of a museum. Basically, a long time ago (1879), this guy, Eugène Viollet‑le‑Duc hired all these artists to create casts of all the best architectural features of Paris. Then he hired all these other artists to painstakingly recreate all the frescos and stained glass. You basically get the best of France, architecturally, in one museum. My one word of warning is that there is very minimal English (I had my Google Translate camera feature out the whole time).

I only have three more full days left in Paris, and don’t you worry, I only have five museums left. I’m also going to squeeze in a day-trip to Giverny tomorrow.

And I know I’ve referenced Joni Mitchell’s California when heading home last summer, but it’s especially true this summer:

“Sitting in a park in Paris France

Reading the news and it sure looks bad

They won't give peace a chance

That was just a dream some of us had…”

California, I’m coming home.

With love & curiosity,

Odessa