Fifty percent

Modifié le : 2019/07/27

This morn­ing I passed the fifty per­cent revi­sion mark. Les Mailles san­guines con­tains 81 chap­ters or scenes vary­ing from one to ten pages. Always pro­vid­ed with the pages revised by Perig, who gives me his cor­rec­tions every Tues­day, when we meet as a choir, I open Scriven­er, reread the pas­sages, and focus pri­mar­i­ly on the ele­ments not­ed by Perig.

Once a chap­ter is com­plet­ed, I save it in Word for­mat in a direc­to­ry called “done.” Scriven­er also allows syn­chro­niza­tion with oth­er soft­ware and a web­site : Sim­plenote. These same chap­ters are, there­fore, in a cloud that I get back with my iPad. If I’m in the sub­way, in a café, I can con­tin­ue the work. When I come home, I do a new syn­chro­niza­tion between Sim­plenote and Scrivener.

I have no dif­fi­cul­ty writ­ing in a pub­lic place unless music that is too dis­cor­dant fights against my inner rhythms. I con­sid­er that I real­ly start­ed writ­ing dur­ing my first sig­nif­i­cant love pain. It was in 1981, I’ve already told it else­where. My pain, as gigan­tic as a cliché, made me flee an apart­ment where a too painful atmos­phere reigned. I took refuge among the peo­ple, the onlookers.

Lurk­ing in the shad­ow of a table cor­ner, I start­ed spy­ing on peo­ple and telling myself sto­ries. Now, like a prop­er adult, I car­ry my whims with me, and I man­age to invent, not from scratch, but still to cre­ate char­ac­ters. But I will nev­er be able to sep­a­rate myself from real­i­ty. There are too many peo­ple around me who unin­ten­tion­al­ly tell me about their expe­ri­ences, who share looks, smiles, anx­i­eties, and vices. Too many men who tell me, on the Net, about their deep impuls­es, their inad­e­quate respons­es to pain.

Just yes­ter­day, a guy was telling me about his tor­ment. Her lover, just out of the clos­et, hav­ing chil­dren, decides to live his life to the fullest. Under­stand that he does­n’t want to be faith­ful yet, that he has a life to live, that he wants to remain a friend, blah, blah. Peo­ple, even if they are rea­son­able, sin­cere, remain selfish.

Anoth­er who tells me that he has caught syphilis and that he must warn his last lovers, ashamed. It’s not your fault, though, that I’m telling him. No mat­ter how care­ful we are, virus­es and bac­te­ria take advan­tage of our blind desire to be loved to slip from one skin to anoth­er. He thanked me as if I had just giv­en him absolution.

I’m not talk­ing about all those oth­er sto­ries I’ve heard, from women as much as from men, about every­thing that’s usu­al­ly weak­ly said, or not at all, because it’s too complicated.

In short, I am at fifty per­cent of the revi­sion of my lit­tle invent­ed sto­ry. In a year, or maybe a lit­tle ear­li­er, I’ll have to look for anoth­er one.

It is not true that every­thing has been said in lit­er­a­ture since every­thing is start­ing all over again, that the col­ors of truth are trans­formed as tec­ton­ic plates are formed, as stars are born and hearts die.

Fifty per­cent. Coin­ci­den­tal­ly, this for­ti­eth chap­ter enti­tled “The Will” is a piv­otal scene. I did­n’t mean to. Quite undoubt­ed­ly, this is, in my case, a desire for geom­e­try, for sched­ul­ing. And I’m glad things are hap­pen­ing like this right now. I real­ly need­ed it.