04 mars 2008
Literary obsession
My little woman and I bought 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die for our second anniversary. It is easy to criticise this kind of guide for its subjectivity – for instance, no matter how much a genius a writer is, no one deserves to have four books listed. Some articles are too academic, some not particularly well-written…
But in the end, it does not really matter, because we’re having a lot of fun. Being both obsessional about literature, we regularly enjoy reading to each others a few articles from this guide. We discuss if we agree or not with their selection, and scrupulously note down the titles of the books we want to read or re-read. I know it’s going to sound terribly dorky, but I even created an Excel sheet to enter our comments.
The best thing is that my little woman finds it extremely sexy J
22 février 2008
Speechless
This post is written “after the battle”, as we say in French, but I wanted to mention the writers’ strike that recently took place in America. It’s only fair that writers benefit from the large profit brought in by the internet, and a number of people in Hollywood supported them.
On the website, Speechless, you can see videos recorded by actors “voicing” their support for the writers. They are often funny, and amongst less-known people, you can recognise Sean Penn, Demi Moore, Zach Braff and Woody Allen – his video absolutely killed me!
Nothing like resistance with style!
(That should become a French saying – I’ll talk to the Academie Française about it)
14 février 2008
Valentine’s Day: a good day to talk about sex and literature!
Since 1998, the British, with their wicked humour, have been bestowing the Bad Sex in Fiction Award, a prize for the worst literary sex scene of the year. On the Literary Review’s website, you can read the short-listed passages for 2008, as well as the winning passages from previous years.
Writing a sex scene is a perilous exercise. When trying, words seem cliché, weak or gross. You can sense the eyes of your future readers staring at the page with you. Those readers you don’t know, but worst of all, the readers you know: your friends, auntie Jennie and your parents. Enough to make you impotent.
10 février 2008
The reading
Here I am, just after the first reading of my play, Not Far From the Supermarket. It all happened thanks to my dream team – Fabrice, Ghislaine, Benoît and Hope.
Catherine, an actress and director, was also there, to play the role of the audience. Thanks to you too, Cat!
So, how did it go? I am really happy, because it was an extremely productive session. Read by the actors, the text was as fluid as I hoped it would be. Only a few passages need to be reworked. Afterwards, we had an interesting discussion, which gave me food for thought, particularly regarding the rhythm of the play, and a couple of suggestions to improve the ending.
I now have to think all this over. And I guess you’ll hear about it again in the near future!
06 février 2008
A writer’s tool
With this post, I might be about to break a myth, but the truth needs to be known: writers use thesauruses. Do you think inspiration comes in beautifully crafted paragraphs, full of precise, easily understandable and yet surprising vocabulary? As if.
Some days, what goes on in a writer’s mind sounds something like this: “Shit. Something’s missing there. This part doesn’t work. Don’t have a clue how to fix it. It’s starting to get on my nerves. And I used the word ‘sick’ 3 times in one page!!! Quick, my thesaurus!”
Our writer looks up “sick” and finds the following options: unwell, ill, ailing, indisposed, poorly, below par, laid up, out of sorts, nauseated, queasy, bilious, vomit, throw up, puke…
The writer closes the thesaurus – already feeling much better…
30 janvier 2008
New blog
So why am I moving to a new address so soon after creating my blog? Because, very quickly, my previous platform turned out to have only limited options, and I wanted to be able to give you all something funnier, prettier, bigger, slicker, wilder, faster, stronger… hum, hum, I guess I got a little bit carried away!
Anyway, here you have it all, even the RSS feed for those of you who already belong to the web 2.0 world.
Hope you enjoy it!
22 janvier 2008
Not Far from the Supermarket
WORK IN PROGRESS
I wrote a play a few years ago, but then decided to put aside playwriting in order to fully concentrate on novels. However, things don't always go according to plan, and this November, I saw an excellent play directed by Patrice Bigel called Nature morte dans un fossé - I was so inspired by the performance that I felt compelled to write again for the theatre.
The following day, I was already at my desk running off the first draft of Not Far from the Supermarket. It's a play of monologues for four actors: two women and two men. It's a work of passion – because how can we not be fed up with domestic violence, social pressure, genetically modified foods, or rents that are too high? But it's also a touching and funny play, because only our emotions and laughter can save us from the unfairness of the world.
Paris - New York - The Universe
WORK IN PROGRESS
After completing my first novel, The Importance of the Alphabet, I quickly decided to start working on a new one: Paris – New York – The Universe. I am currently working on it and can anticipate that it will take quite a few months before it is completed. When you're going to spend a long time on a project, you better pack it with some exciting topics!
Themes that will appear in Paris – New York – The Universe:
Friendships
Violence
Drugs
Spirituality
SM
Transgender
Love
I bet you can't wait!
Neither can I...
The Importance of the Alphabet
In February 2007, I finished writing my first novel, The Importance of the Alphabet. It tells the story of how one can fall in love because of an “e” that becomes an “i”. It's about how to dream one's way through life, how to appreciate a photo exhibit, how to be the daughter of a famous feminist author. Well, The Importance of the Alphabet is about all these things and much more...
I sent it to both French and American publishers, thanks to Hope who was kind enough to translate the prologue into English. Unfortunately, whilst I received some positive feedback, no one liked the novel enough to sign me on...
Anyhow, you can now make up your own mind about it – here's the prologue of The Importance of the Alphabet!
The Importance of the Alphabet
(Translated from French by Hope Newhouse)
PROLOGUE
1
At the age of twelve, upon hearing Francis address the class, she knew she would marry him. This realization came to her just as the other students were snickering when Francis stumbled over the beginning of the third stanza of a poem about animals, all of which Joséphine had forgotten except for that one bewitching error in pronunciation. She remembered it clearly: Francis, nervous and awkward, trying to recall the words learned quickly – too quickly – that were now getting all mixed up in his head, transforming themselves, and slipping away in his effort to recite them. In any case, he wasn't doing any worse than the others: his inflection just as hesitating and flat as his peers' when they had faced the same exercise. Except for Mélanie of course, but then there's always a Mélanie there to recite poems as if they were endowed with a personal message, one that had her reeling on the edge of a sea of secret emotions as she recited in front of the class. What a load of crap, thought Joséphine.
When Francis got to the third stanza, he began: “The lion, the eliphant and—” Eliphant! He said eliphant! Gleeful chuckles at such a stupid mistake, a baby's mistake! Eliphant, ha ha ha! As Francis blushed and stared at his feet, Joséphine gazed at him in amazement. Eliphant. Yes, yes, yes, she would marry Francis and no one else. She would have his babies, no, she would have his daughter, that's right, and they would take care of each other when they were old. Maybe it wasn't quite that clear to her – after all, Joséphine was only 12 – but every time she remembered that moment, she vehemently insisted that, yes, everything had come to her at once in a dazzling flash of intuition. So there. And curses on those who refuse to believe her. It is not up for discussion, and cross my heart, hope to die, I do believe her – I already have reasons enough to go to hell without adding any of Joséphine's spells.
Despite her complete conviction, it was not so easy for Joséphine to persuade Francis that her premonition was well founded. The poor boy took her sudden enthusiasm for stubborn meanness. How could he take her declarations of love brought on by a moment of public humiliation seriously? Francis had never been particularly popular in his class, nor particularly rejected either; he was just too ordinary to be noticed. That was fine by him, much better in any case than making everyone laugh because he couldn't pronounce a word. He had had to start over four times before managing to correctly articulate ‘elephant'! Not because he had some kind of a speech impediment, he just didn't like having to talk in front of the class; he didn't know the poem very well and everything had gotten all muddled in his brain. Now, he didn't want to think about it anymore but Joséphine wouldn't let him forget. Everyday, he received a new note, each one mentioning the eliphant and inevitably ending with “Yours forever, J.”
Francis didn't usually hang out with Joséphine, and now he blatantly avoided her. She was obviously making fun of him. He didn't understand why she was so determined, but he hoped that, as his mother always said, “time would fix everything.” Depending on what needed fixing, Francis imagined either a man with super strength armed with a hammer, or a plump woman dressed as a nurse, who came like Greek gods to put everything back in place. Currently, he wished the strong man would come and give Joséphine a good whack on the head with his hammer to get the insanity out.
But Joséphine would not stand down: when she saw her messages were not working, she changed strategies and decided to talk things out with Francis directly. It wasn't easy, but nothing could stop her, and she managed to get him alone after their last class on a rainy Friday afternoon. The rest of the children had left, and there she was between the door and Francis, who wanted nothing more than to go through that door and go home. At first, he put his fingers in his ears, but he ended up listening to what she had to say. Later, if you asked him why, he would just shrug his shoulders and say that no one could hold out against Joséphine. Only once, when his wife wasn't there, I heard him say that Joséphine had talked for so long – two hours, maybe more, how should he know? – that he could no longer keep his fingers in his ears. That was how he ended up listening to her long monologue, hoping that if he let her talk her heart out, she would leave him the heck alone and that would be the end of it.
That day, Joséphine spoke for a long time about her brother Jean-Luc and their word games, the one-thousand and one secret codes they had invented to talk to each other, codes that they changed regularly anytime they thought someone – usually one of their parents – had figured out their latest one. Of course, it was just silly childishness, but one of their favorites, the one they had started with and that had lasted a whole year, consisted of replacing all the ‘e' sounds with ‘i' sounds. Yes, it was stupid, but it cracked them up to repeat – ripit – everything they came up with when they applied the rule. However, for some inexplicable reason, although they had since moved on to more elaborate codes, the game had left its marks on Joséphine. Well, one mark. There was a word, just one, that she could no longer pronounce normally: elephant. From iliphant, after much concentration, she had managed to move on to eliphant, but there she was stuck. She could annunciate meticulously e-le-phant, but if she wasn't paying attention, there for was no hope for it, it was eliphant that came out. Joséphine had become obsessed with it, but, strangely enough, it was a positive obsession: she loved this word that was different only for her. It had become her secret, a word she avoided in front of others who would have corrected her, but that she repeated to herself like a mantra as the symbol of a mysterious link between her and words. Because, yes, she wanted to be an author, well, an authoress as she put it, and for that, you had to have something special with words. Joséphine had her eliphant.
During Francis' recitation, when he had said her word, not once, but three times, it had called to her like a magic incantation that could mean only one thing: they would be husband and wife. She didn't have time to explain that they would have a daughter and grow old together because at this point in her speech, Francis, able to take it no longer, and not being able to think of any other non-violent solution to make her stop, abruptly kissed her on the lips. His lips were firmly closed; he didn't know how to kiss a girl and wasn't even sure he wanted to kiss Joséphine, but however hard he had tried to think of something, it was the only way to get out of the classroom and her spider web – spidir wib? – of words. Taking advantage of Joséphine's surprise, he ran away as fast as he could.
When they were twenty, Joséphine and Francis were married. By this point, Francis had become a lover attentive to pleasing the body he knew so well, though the woman inside remained a mystery, turbulent and brimming with willpower. Later, when they had their only daughter, choosing a name was simple: Ellie. But slowly, slowly, I don't want to get ahead of myself.
2
Joséphine resented her parents for not having named her Albertine after her (yes, her very own) free-spirited, proustian hero. She didn't dislike her old-fashioned name, but still, Albertine would have been a top-rate choice. But then, could she really hold it against her parents that they had never read Proust? Perhaps.
She toyed with the idea of changing her name – there had to be a way to do it – but finally contented herself with using Albertine as a nom de plume. She made this decision when she started at college in Aix-en-Provence, and as the years passed, she always took the same satisfaction in signing Albertine Ménard to each of the articles and books that made her famous. She tore through her studies like a lioness whose cubs are in danger: devouringly, unable to do anything by halves. A long while after, the mere mention of her name was still enough to make some of her professors go pale, those who had born the brunt of her roaring energy. Others, on the contrary, took on the dreamy look of those whom destiny has confronted with someone exceptional, mad, certainly, but as only the truly talented are. All these professors would be a welcome source of anecdotes for the documentary that would be made about her life, but that comes later.
For the moment, Joséphine has just received her diploma, and, while beginning her career contributing articles to the local press, she is organizing her marriage to Francis, her eliphantastic lover, and their move to Paris. No honeymoon, nope, first of all no money, and plus, there's all the time in the world for traveling! Joséphine's career, however, can't wait. Francis has a job as an accountant in Marseille that he likes? So? Paris is overflowing with jobs for accountants! He wants to stay in his Provence that he loves? We'll come back, we'll come back, but LATER; right now Joséphine is on the move, and she knows her future is in Paris!
What could Francis do? He sighed and gave in because he knew to refuse would mean to lose her. As their marriage approached, he realized he had come to believe in Joséphine's intuition. No matter how he racked his brains, he couldn't imagine a life other than the one he led with Joséphine. He faced the truth head on, at first a bit surprised, and then after thinking it over for a while, he figured it must be proof that Joséphine was right, and he accepted her decision. He accepted it fully, entirely, completely, as no other boy of 20 would have been able. He accepted it, and he accepted her, her and the life she was choosing. When he became conscious of this, a wave came over him that began in his stomach and fizzled out simultaneously in his hair and his toes, leaving him dizzy with happiness. Yes, that's right. If someone had asked him, Francis would have said that he had felt his brain and his senses open up, that for a second he could use the entire capacity of his body and mind, for a second he felt in harmony with the world. But no one ever asked Francis. Most people who knew the couple just looked at him with a little smile as if to say: poor boy, under the thumb of that ragingly hormonal woman, he must not have an easy life (but who does, good Lord!). Au contraire. Francis loved Joséphine. Really. That's no random statement thrown out there, no I repeat: Francis loved Joséphine. Following her in her adventures was the thing that brought him closest to happiness. And if someone were to insist – there's always a skeptic – “didn't he feel like he was giving up something?” well actually, no, not at all, thank you very much.
And their parents in all this? Francis' father couldn't get used to Joséphine. He adopted an attitude of distant friendliness towards her, and towards his son who he evidently could not understand. His mother opted for patience – time would fix everything – convinced that Francis would eventually meet a more stable girl, who wouldn't be able to drag him about by the nose, because he would have learned his lesson. But time went its own way and ended up changing her. She would later confess that she liked Joséphine whose strong will and ideas amused her – those same qualities that so annoyed her husband – because Joséphine had the most beautiful virtue in her eyes: for some reason that she could not explain, Joséphine made her son happy. It was obvious, and in the end, what more could a mother ask for? When she thought about it, nothing. Joséphine's parents, on the other hand, had had high hopes for Francis. They saw him as a boy who was solid and composed (which he was) and who would ground their daughter (which he did not do). When they realized that Francis would follow her rather than slow her down, they told themselves at least she would not be alone on the path she was choosing, which was still something. To be a happy parent, it is important to be pragmatic and to know how to adjust one's expectations. Everyone adapted as best he or she could, and they were married on July 13, 1970. The next day, while everyone they knew was at the Bastille Day dance, Francis and Joséphine loaded up the truck loaned to them for the occasion, and on the morning of the 15th, they headed to Paris through the summer traffic.
3
They lived in Paris's 18th arrondissement. Often on Sunday mornings, they would climb up Montmartre, and endlessly survey the city from the steps of the Sacre Coeur. Though they could feel Provence close to their hearts waiting for their return, they made the city theirs and they loved it. For now, they were young and happy and spent their evenings making love, or smoking dope and making plans to change the world with their friends. Without fail, Joséphine would find a way to bring up a debate about feminism, and so these smoke-filled nights gave birth, helter skelter, to the ideas that would become her articles; because of course, Joséphine managed to get newspapers (not big ones, but the national press was ahead, no doubt!) to print her essays. She knew how to harass people and did it shamelessly because, in her opinion, it was an important professional skill. And it worked. Of course, her income was erratic, but Francis, good old Francis, had found a job so most of the time the beans were buttered. Yes, they were happy and they wanted a baby.
Considering the ardor with which they got to work, (come, Francis, come to me my love! Come plant your seeds in my womb!) it was an easy task, and a few months after their marriage, Joséphine was pregnant. Francis began to have recurring dreams about elephants: old ones, young ones, wild ones, trained ones, alone or in families, his nights were filled with elephants. They were gentle and tame, and once, Francis saw his own reflection in the eye of an old pachyderm. He was sure it was him, although the image shining in the depths of the large eye was also that of an elephant. The old animal spoke to him – well, he didn't really speak to him, let's say it was more like telepathy: “I go to the cemetery, do not follow me. Your path does not lead this way, but rather that way,” and he pointed his trunk towards the east. Francis the elephant looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a pond of clear water surrounded by tender grass that made his mouth water. When he turned back around, the ancestor was gone. Francis woke up wondering if elephants really ate grass and what the heck the dream was supposed to mean. During the day, he called his mother and, although he wasn't in the habit of doing so, asked her about his father's health – he had never been better. It wasn't that Francis believed dreams told the future, but you never knew... In fact, the following day his father had a heart attack that proved fatal. This unfortunate coincidence troubled Francis for a long time and seemed to further weigh down his grief. From then on, he could no longer remember his dreams.
Meanwhile, far from her husband's now-silent nights, Joséphine was possessed by an insatiable desire for creation. Creating in her womb was not enough; she would give birth not to one baby, but to two: one flesh and blood, the other ink and paper. Since the beginning of her pregnancy, Joséphine had become a volcano of words that overflowed onto everything that could hold them: sheets of paper, restaurant napkins, toilet paper, newspaper margins, notebooks, books, candy bar wrappers. Her notes were like a leprosy that had taken over the apartment and was little by little covering everything, day and night, since she often woke up muttering until she could find a virgin space to write on. After four months of this frenetic activity, Joséphine collected all the little and big pieces of her work and put them in order. It was not easy, even though she was the one who had written them. While working, Joséphine seemed to find comfort in explaining everything to her now-swollen belly. More than once, Francis tried to listen to what she was telling their child, but he never managed to decipher his wife's murmuring. In any case, she seemed fulfilled and even a bit ecstatic, although he was not sure if this was due to the child on its way, or the book – because even if Joséphine refused to talk to him or anyone else about it, he knew that her other big project was just that: a book.
Joséphine was eight months and twenty-four days pregnant when she finally put a stack of copies of her manuscript in front of Francis:
– Voilà. It's finished. The piece of paper on top is the list of publishers I want you to send it to. I'd like you to do it today. Right now, I need to lie down for a minute.
Belly first, she headed into the bedroom. Francis diligently labeled the envelopes, went down to the post office and sent out Albertine Ménard's work. Two hours later, Joséphine's water broke.
L'Homme Fatal, a bitingly humorous feminist essay, was a critical and public success – need I say? I am sure that most of you have at least paged through it. As you know, it was translated into many languages, and Joséphine was interviewed for it again and again. From then on, she was well known and had an editorial column in a national magazine. She acted as though all this was normal: she had always believed in what she did, and knew that success would come sooner rather than later. And since it was normal, success did not change her. It changed her schedule a bit, but in the end, not as much as her other baby, the one that cried at night and asked to be fed and loved, looking up at her with big black eyes.