It is with great emotion that I take up my pen today to share an exceptional moment… For the first time, I can say: I did it.
My debut novel is finished.
It’s Wednesday, October 13, 2021, and I’m finally what I’ve always dreamed of being: an author.
Edited over and over again, the different versions of this first step into the world of literature pile up on my old wooden desk and taunt me. It was an amazing experience, and one that taught me resilience – no, you do not write well every day, and that’s okay! – and humility.
How amazing is it to write!
My first horror stories go back to my earliest childhood; every evening, a short story, a tale, a poem. The first victim of my stories: my cousin, who trembles under his fluffy duvet with terror… and pleasure!
A common thread, however, runs through each of my stories: I write to speak out. Reveal. Condemn. Provide the opportunity for those left behind to be brought to light, heard, and understood.
I like to believe that my stories shine a light on my reader’s dark side and allow them to better understand and love themselves, despite everything. Love themselves at least as much as I love my characters.
My protagonists are paper beings as alive in my eyes as you and I, and I love them imperfect: they are loud, angry, sulky, violent, intelligent, jealous. They smell of alcohol, debauchery, vice. They willingly show themselves to be cruel, malicious, immoral.
But above all, they are endearing. Sensitive. Self-destructive. They are the first victims of the world in which they operate. Over the words, over the pages, they know hell.
They aren’t born sadistic, they become sadistic, and it’s all their imperfections that make them so beautiful.
I will come back in more detail in a future article on this writing work, this artisanat du mot. For now, let’s celebrate!
Looking forward to reading you,
Credits:
Cover picture by Jasmin Sessler via Unsplash
