writing | Guy Verville
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Articles found containing the term “writing” (17)

Glimmers

My walks to work are not all equal. There are these days without thoughts, there are also these clouds in my sleep and my hopes. Then there are these morning lights, made for the pleasure of the eye, which drinks in evanescent details. — 2016/07/09

Egg and horse

A friend recently pointed out to me that I haven't written much for a long time and was quick to wonder if I wasn't out of inspiration. — 2013/06/20

The archer

Writing and singing, singing, or writing. It's all the same to me. I'm reviewing Les Mailles sanguines, learning a new melody. In both cases, it requires me to be meticulous, intense. — 2013/04/20

The sisters' cemetery

The place is peaceful, ideal for resting. It is the Manoir d'Youville in Châteauguay, an old summer or resting residence for the Grey Nuns, and now a hotel for gatherings, meetings, retreats, choral weekends as Ganymede does every year. — 2013/04/15

Words

I'm reviewing Les Mailles sanguines in small steps, in short words. Despite a neck pain close to a stiff neck, despite tired eyes, despite the boredom of a Saturday, I dive into my mind, probably for the last time. — 2013/02/23

Vertigo

I've been writing these promenades for a little over a year. It is, therefore, a form of an anniversary. Time is an unfathomable vertigo that colors my eyes. — 2012/10/28

Window on oneself

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. — 2012/10/04

Not seeing the season

It's not that I don't have enough words. The word remains voluble in my thoughts. However, it is elsewhere than on the Internet, in the mesh of my novel. Writing bewitches me, almost forbids my other visions as if my mind was ignited by a single doctrine. — 2012/03/26

The calm writing

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! — 2012/03/15

Finding your words again

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. — 2012/03/07

The legends

I was talking to a friend about a beautiful piece we're learning at the choir. I told him that the text set to music was by Rilke. — 2012/02/29

Recovered manuscript

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. — 2012/01/22

The Twelve Kingdoms

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. — 2011/12/31

The calm swell of old couples

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. — 2011/12/21

Like at the station

Sometimes we feel on days like there is nothing else to do but wait for the next ones, that what could happen the next day would be better than the current grey of the rising sun. — 2011/12/14

Are we?

I dreamt that a well-known publishing house would return my manuscript to me with a letter of vehement nonsense and tell me not to write a single word again. I was new in a convoluted office. My colleagues looked like people I knew. — 2011/11/13

The illusions

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. — 2011/10/21

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