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Nervousness and impatience

Modifié le : 2019/08/08

The end of the writ­ing of the nov­el cer­tain­ly did not calm me down, quite the oppo­site. The feel­ing of accom­plish­ment quick­ly turned to stage fright and impa­tience, not to men­tion the doubt and inevitable bub­bling of com­par­isons and jealousy.

All you have to do is prowl around Édi­tions du Boréal, Édi­tions Alto, Héliotrope, to name only three of the good pub­lish­ers ; all you have to do is fear that they will refuse my man­u­script so that pride, once again, will take a hit. All you have to do is read the praise reviews on this or that author, com­pare them to my writings…

Some­one told me two days ago, when I told him I had fin­ished my nov­el : “What, it ends, a nov­el?”. I found the brava­do as insen­si­tive as it could be, and it went straight to the heart. Of course, a text will nev­er be com­plet­ed, it can be rewrit­ten over and over again. How­ev­er, we have to put the final touch­es to it, move on to some­thing else. And this act trig­gers the oth­er machines, the one of the desire to be heard, the one also invent­ed by the king’s mad­man who already mocks all our claims.

Pride is strong. Yet when I was revis­ing my nov­el, noth­ing could resist my judg­ment. Entire chap­ters have been passed under the ax. Now that I have to let the eyes and minds of oth­ers split the skin of my sen­si­tive non­sense, I become pater­nal, moth­er­ly suffocating.

I am not a lit­er­ary per­son in the sense that I do not attend trade fairs or book­stores. My mind is else­where, and my body is fight­ing, get­ting drunk on the great hon­ey of peo­ple, my heart is beat­ing all over the place. It is there­fore like­ly that the crit­i­cism will be severe.

At this point, I can be told to stop com­plain­ing, and we’ll be right. It’s that I’m not com­plain­ing. I’m just ner­vous­ly count­ing time.

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