A publisher says "yes"

Modifié le : 2017/12/26

The answer final­ly came. Some peo­ple, who read many man­u­scripts, decid­ed that mine was worth it. The con­tract is not signed, I do not imme­di­ate­ly reveal the name of the pub­lish­ing house ; let us call it super­sti­tion. Any­way, I can tell the sto­ry of a bot­tle of sparkling wine wait­ing for its time in the bot­tom of my refrigerator.

When I bought my house, a friend brought me this bot­tle as a con­grat­u­la­tion. I put it away and then for­got it. Last Octo­ber, a pub­lish­er sent me an e‑mail announc­ing that my man­u­script had reached the first read­ing stage and that I would receive a reply with­in two weeks. A nice coin­ci­dence, I was clean­ing a cup­board and fell on the bot­tle, well hid­den, at the bot­tom, in a cloth bag. Sur­prised, I decid­ed to put it in the fridge, telling myself that chance was doing things real­ly well.

And then, a long silence of five months, inter­spersed with two mes­sages invit­ing me to be patient. In Jan­u­ary, I was won­der­ing if I should­n’t take the bot­tle out, drink it to soothe my anguish or, in the worst case, my pain. Wait­ing can hurt if you don’t take care of it, if you don’t accept, at first, to let things go, to rely on fate, on your deceased fore­bears, on the moon that sets the pace of emo­tions. Wait­ing ends up mak­ing you age a lit­tle more, even if, in any case, you always age a lit­tle more, with joys and sorrows.

Today, I did­n’t decide to take the bot­tle out. I’m wait­ing to sign. I, how­ev­er, called every­one, I would have shout­ed it right away on Face­book, on Google, I instead can­celed my singing les­son, I also can­celed a din­ner with a friend, then told my two friends on the ground floor that I want­ed to stay with them.

I still can’t believe it. I am proud of my text and will look at it again with a mag­ni­fy­ing glass, with the help of a friend, before leav­ing it total­ly in the hands of the pub­lish­er. Writ­ing is design­ing, pub­lish­ing, real­ly giv­ing birth. I know, how­ev­er, that there are many ways to give birth. This sixth nov­el does not make me a celebri­ty – and God knows how many authors have received awards and few peo­ple know about their exis­tence – no, fame does­n’t mat­ter, there’s no point in swelling up more than the ego needs. Of course, I do.

I would­n’t want to fall into clichés. So I’ll keep my mouth shut. We have to keep going. Tomor­row will always be anoth­er day to start again.

Still, it does­n’t change his world, but…