Final meeting of corrections with my editor. I’m setting foot for the first time at VLB. It is a building that does not look like a building, a rectangle of grey stucco topped with a sign worthy of a convenience store. The more modern lettering on the door reassures and, inside, you are quickly immersed in a literary universe that prides itself on the presence of some portraits of famous authors, including that of Gaston Miron.
Of course, there are books everywhere. It intimidates me, I don’t know well Miron. Annie, my editor, introduces me to Martin Balthazar, the big boss. Cute little guy, who reassures me about my novel. “I only read pages here and there, but I really liked the atmosphere of this complex family. I look forward to reading the final product.” I tell him that I am proud to have been chosen by them. And that’s not a lie. Who wouldn’t be ? They are conscientious people and obviously in love with their profession.
Annie and I sit in the meeting room and I go through the pages that have been overwritten by the proofreader. My former job as a typographer allows me to go fast, being used to the acronyms of the profession. I am sharing my last observations that I had noted on the computer, so I reported incongruities that no one had yet noticed.
It’s always like that. It takes several brains, different perspectives to succeed in smoothing out the last roughnesses of a text. As I had not finished my own reading of the pages, I had to type the last fifty pages of the novel when I returned. It is now done. I sent everything to Annie. It is 7pm, night has fallen, I am writing, trying to realize that it is now the end, the real end, of this novel that I no longer want to read again !
Publié le 20 janvier 2015.
Il me faut penser organiser un lancement. Où pourrais-je bien trouver une salle ? Une librairie serait sans doute le meilleur endroit. Y’aura foule ? Pas certain. C’est encore loin et si proche en même temps.
Mission accomplie ? Inchallah, à la grâce de Dieu, au bon plaisir du démon, à l’énergie des elfes, à l’espoir, oui, oui, à l’espoir d’intéresser quelques commentateurs. Ma sixième pierre blanche sur le chemin de ma courte existence. Ce qu’il restera, un temps, de moi.