A reader asked me a few days ago if I was such and such a character in my novel or if, in this other, the story was not autobiographical. Authors are probably smiling as they read this. This question, however obsolete it may be, nevertheless conceals a truth, even if it should not be made a generality either.
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!
I completed the reading of the Le Gardien du feu and immediately immersed myself in Letters to a young poet from Rilke. At the same time, I continue in parallel, the review of Les Mailles sanguines. The comparison of writing breaths is inevitable even if criticism, as Rilke suggests in his first letter, is unnecessary.
Mon ancien éditeur m'a retourné, annoté, mon manuscrit. Le colis était abimé, inséré dans une enveloppe de Postes Canada, qui présentait mécaniquement ses plus plates excuses. Il manque tout de même vingt pour cent des pages. Le paquet a visiblement chuté, l'enveloppe utilisée par mon éditeur, peu conçue pour un tel nombre de pages, s'est ouverte et une partie du contenu s'est volatilisé. Il m'a fallu une bonne demi-heure pour ordonner ce qui a pu être récupéré.
It's an idea that's been coming up for a very long time. It is the result of a dream. I am inside an icy little house, I open the door that goes onto a winter outside. A quiet early morning, a starry mist welcomes a sun that announces a cold day. There is a road in front of the house, which a hedge partially masks.
I pulled out my iPad, in the subway, opened a mind-mapping application to lay the first foundations of a novel. The subject is still too vague in my lazy little head, and probably also stuck to my reality. Since my story is still out there, it is difficult, even dangerous, to seek a conclusion.
The last chapter is written slowly. At the same time, the workload, the one who helps me put butter on my bread, which also helps me buy this bread, increases, new responsibilities arise, negotiations drag on (but in a constructive way) with a bank, my grandmother, almost a hundred years old, feels tired, is in the hospital.