I spent the whole week revising the novel. This text is like croissant dough. It is stretched, flattened, added butter, folded. Everything becomes uniform and, in the end, we hope that it will swell, will be appetizing.
My editor’s corrections were so rigorous that there were severe cuts here and there. I accepted all the corrections noted in the word processing software before starting the last reading myself, trying to ignore what I knew about the text. Thus, without any reference points, without any mark of comments or corrections, I was able to see what had become natural, flowing and what, sometimes, was no longer so.
The eyes and gestures of an external corrector can be both effective and inappropriate. In some places, I noticed right away that part of my breath had been taken away. I went back to the original manuscript, understood, reflected, decided if I accepted or refused.
This work was painful, not for my own self-esteem, but because I am beginning to have trouble appreciating what I have written. The delivery of this text was difficult; I have the impression that I have been giving birth by cesarean section for two years. I no longer have the eyes, the patience to love this text. I see all my faults, my weaknesses and also my qualities.
Everyone will tell me that this is normal. I know that too. I finally dropped off my pencil. At the very least, for this text. If all goes well, the next time I have to approve it, it will be in the form of a book ready to be sent to the printer. Inchallah as an Algerian friend says. To the grace of all the gods.
And meanwhile, autumn calms me down.