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.
My former publisher returned my manuscript to me, annotated it. The package was damaged, inserted in a Canada Post envelope, which mechanically apologized in the flattest possible way. Twenty percent of the pages are still missing. The package visibly dropped, the envelope used by my publisher, which was not designed for such a large number of pages, opened and some of the contents vanished. It took me a good half hour to order what could be retrieved.
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.