The seasons roll on a bumpy path. That will not change tomorrow. Many people already dream of relaxing on the terraces, but winter still continues to pour its snow from time to time, which, in theory, is legal until spring arrives. Then we can cry, but for now, let’s endure it!
On my side, despite the fatigue, I push a little more effort, discipline myself to write, undertake the dangerous exercise of reading other authors while I review my novel. Authors often write simply. Good stories are buildings built not with precious stones, but with imaginations made up of pure grains of sand. The genius of an author is often measured by the transparency of his work.
After the shock of two publishers’ rejections, my view of my novel doesn’t change much. I like what I read in it. My discomfort is delayed, my confidence is restored. There are, of course, some wrong sentences, ideas that suddenly seem too raw or ugly to me, like stubborn blood scabs on this literature that I would like to be beyond reproach. I want to scratch, even if it means spilling blood again. Beyond this necessary work, which I was already ready to do, I comfort myself by realizing that my characters remain whole, honest.
I will be published, I remain convinced of this.