Catégorie : C’est la vie

Salon’s book critic Laura Miller is not going to make very many friends with this article, but I actually think she’s right in a lot of ways. Her article points out most of the elements that still make me uncomfortable with the concept of NaNoWriMo. You should read the whole thing, but if you are too lazy, here’s an excerpt:

NaNoWriMo is an event geared entirely toward writers, which means it’s largely unnecessary. When I recently stumbled across a list of promotional ideas for bookstores seeking to jump on the bandwagon, true dismay set in. « Write Your Novel Here » was the suggested motto for an in-store NaNoWriMo event. It was yet another depressing sign that the cultural spaces once dedicated to the selfless art of reading are being taken over by the narcissistic commerce of writing.

I say « commerce » because far more money can be made out of people who want to write novels than out of people who want to read them. And an astonishing number of individuals who want to do the former will confess to never doing the latter. […]

Rather than squandering our applause on writers — who, let’s face, will keep on pounding the keyboards whether we support them or not — why not direct more attention, more pep talks, more nonprofit booster groups, more benefit galas and more huzzahs to readers? Why not celebrate them more heartily? They are the bedrock on which any literary culture must be built. After all, there’s not much glory in finally writing that novel if it turns out there’s no one left to read it.

Recently, I ran into someone I know at the book launch of a mutual friend. While chatting about the abundance of books published within a certain group of our acquaintances, this person revealed to me that she attends every single launch and buys all the books to show her support. « But I never read them, » she says. « I just don’t have the time. » This person was a published author herself, and I’m sure she expected most of her friends to read her book. While her comment surprised me, I’m sure she was just admitting out loud a practice done by many, many other writers.

The cheerful « Write a novel in 30 days! » suggested by NaNoWriMo has annoyed me from the start. There’s something in all the excitement around the event that seems to imply that anyone can write a novel. That kind of thinking is not doing anyone a favor, as Laura Miller judiciously points out. While the NaNoWriMo promoters do insist on the fact that what you’ll end up with is a first draft — and a messy one at that — I know that many people will still turn in their unedited manuscripts to editors, or force it upon their family and friends, « just to see ». The idea makes me cringe. I love good books too much and I admire good, hard working writers too intensely to ever dare show one of my first drafts to anyone. But that’s just me. Over-analyzing, terrified and proud me. Trust me: it’s not that I’m elitist. I just have too much respect for this stuff.

So why did I join in this year? For the purely artificial pressure of the self-imposed deadline. I’ll confess that I’m not that excited about the support group aspect of the exercise, though I know it’s a central part of NaNoWriMo. I don’t really believe that the 175 pages I’ll end up with in November, if I do manage to write that many, will be the true first draft of a novel. At best, it will be a decent start to a longer piece of work that, knowing myself too well, and the fact that I do have to work to make a living, I’ll probably take a couple of years to edit. If I don’t get sick of the characters and the story before I manage to finish it, of course, but that’s another story.

Nine years of freelancing, combined with an ever-increasing online presence have turned me into a scatter-brain in constant need of stimulation, which I probably always was anyway. I have been scared of writing a novel all my life, or at least as long as I have been able to read. When I was 10 or so, I sat down in our unfinished basement in front of an old typewriter and I decided to write a novel. I managed to type about 2 pages and then left the project aside for a while. When I came back to it a few weeks later, I was humiliated to see how naive, earnest and just plain bad my words were. I think it scared me for the following 30 years.

Yeah, I’m that crazy when it comes to writing and I am that hard on myself in general. So if I don’t publicly hold a gun to my head and risk further humiliation by not completing this damn NaNoWriMo, I’ll probably be hiding in a hole for another 30 years. A hole where there is no pen, paper, or laptop. (I’ll probably manage to find an Internet connection though, which I’ll wire directly to my sad, full-of-regrets brain and then I’ll surf and refresh my Twitter feed until I die from bitterness after reading all of your wonderful accomplishments.)

There’s nothing wrong with being « just » a reader. I’m a huge reader. Hell, I even think that I’m a GOOD reader. I’m sure writers would love me if they knew how well I read their books. But at this point in my life, because I’ve been seeing myself as a writer since I was a little kid — though I pretended that I wanted to become a helicopter pilot because it sounded more realistic — I need to write the damn thing. I need to just give it a freakin shot.

Damn. Look at this. I’ve written a 1000-word blog post. And to think that I am behind on my NaNoWriMo word count for the day!

Manque de temps. Crainte de manquer de talent. Nécessité de gagner sa vie. Perte de motivation. Sentiment de découragement devant le nombre de bons romanciers qui existent déjà et dont on n’aura jamais le temps de lire toutes les oeuvres. À quoi bon en ajouter une de plus?

Écrire un roman est un de mes souhaits les plus chers depuis l’enfance. J’ai beaucoup écrit dans ma vie – thèse de maîtrise, journalisme, biographie, scénario – mais je n’ai jamais rédigé de roman. Quand j’ai passé le cap des 20 ans, je me suis dit que j’avais raté la chance d’être dans le groupe ultra sélect de ceux qui publient très tôt. Quand j’ai eu 30 ans, j’ai constaté avec déception que je ne pourrais plus être considérée comme une « jeune » auteure. Quand j’ai eu 40 ans et que j’étais toujours sans roman à mon crédit, j’ai commencé à désespérer. Je me suis durement questionnée: allais-je être de ces gens qui écrivent leur premier roman à la retraite et à qui on s’intéresse surtout pour l’aspect tardif de leur vocation? Ou, pire encore, allais-je tout simplement éviter toute ma vie d’en écrire un?

Toutes les excuses sont bonnes pour ne pas écrire.

Cette année, j’ai décidé de me donner une excuse POUR écrire: NaNoWriMo. Il s’agit d’un regroupement de gens d’un peu partout à travers le monde qui ne se prennent pas trop au sérieux et qui désignent novembre comme étant le National Novel Writing Month. Ils s’engagent envers eux-même à écrire 50,000 mots en 30 jours.

C’est l’équivalent d’un roman de 175 pages.

L’idée, c’est de ne pas se censurer. Il faut voir le tout comme un premier jet et faire taire l’éditeur-réviseur en nous. Le mien est particulièrement verbeux. Déjà, il me chuchote à l’oreille qu’on n’écrit pas un roman qui vaille la peine en un mois (c’est vrai), que 175 pages, ce n’est qu’une longue nouvelle et que de toute manière, j’aurai probablement un contrat ou deux qui feront surface pendant le mois et qui deviendront prioritaires. Depuis deux semaines, mon éditeur-réviseur me dit que mes idées de roman ne sont pas géniales, ou encore, qu’elles feraient de bien meilleurs scénarios qui eux auraient au moins le mérite de me permettre de gagner ma vie. Il me dit que je suis rouillée, que mon français est trop teinté de mes nombreuses lectures en anglais et que je n’irai probablement pas plus loin que ce premier jet.

Sur un coup de tête en fin de semaine, j’ai donc enfermé mon éditeur-réviseur dans le cabanon, entre les meubles de jardin et le barbecue que je venais de remiser pour l’hiver. Il se gardera occupé en leur faisant la leçon sur l’aspect tout à fait superficiel de leur vocation saisonnière.

Et je me suis inscrite à NaNoWriMo.

Ça commence demain, le 1er novembre. Environ 1600 mots par jour pendant 30 jours.

J’ai un peu la chienne. Mais en bonne travailleure autonome, je connais la puissance du deadline, même quand il est artificiellement déterminé.

Pour me motiver, j’ai juste à penser à la femme qui, lors de son cinquantième anniversaire, préfèrera bouffer du gâteau en toute quiétude plutôt que de ruminer d’amers regrets.