My former publisher returned my annotated manuscript. The package was damaged, inserted into a Canada Post envelope, which mechanically apologized in the strongest possible terms. Twenty percent of the pages are still missing. The package obviously fell, the envelope used by my publisher, which was not designed for such a large number of pages, opened and some of the content vanished. It took me half an hour to order what could be recovered.
Beyond this inconvenience, the pages thus erased are like a reminder (without pun intended). I see, surrounded like in small school, stupid mistakes, others more subtle. I probably rushed too quickly to send this manuscript, a tangible sign of the anxiety that eats away at me in front of others. And I fear that this haste is worth another refusal on the part of publishers. And if, in the end, no one wants this manuscript, I will hire a professional editor and publish it, because times have changed a lot. We have curiously returned to a time when it is reasonable to self-publish (and technological advances make it easier [Book Baby is a good example]).
Although my editor’s opinion is that this text is worth it (my story is told, he says, with brio), I understand that at the French level, I still have work. I will be told that I am too strict; I will retort that we do not win medals to apologize for.
So I’m getting back to work. I didn’t buy a small, ultra-light and luxurious computer for the pure pleasure of owning one for nothing. I certainly need my little computer comfort to move forward, but I don’t buy anything for nothing.
So, lazy, get to work!