L\u2019autre soir, je feuilletais le magazine LIRE de novembre et je suis tomb\u00e9e sur l\u2019article consacr\u00e9 \u00e0 l\u2019atelier d\u2019\u00e9criture du c\u00e9l\u00e8bre \u00c9ric-Emmanuel\u00a0Schmitt. L\u2019auteur d\u00e9crivait trois sortes d\u2019\u00e9crivains\u00a0: celui dont le cerveau devance la plume, celui dont le cerveau chemine \u00e0 la m\u00eame allure que la plume et celui dont la plume pr\u00e9c\u00e8de le cerveau.<\/p>\n
Quelle sorte de scribouilleuse pourrais-je bien \u00eatre? Souvent, je m\u2019endors avec une id\u00e9e fabuleuse que je bichonne, que je pomponne, et que je garde avec insistance pour le lendemain. S\u2019il pleut en ouvrant mes yeux, mon id\u00e9e a de grandes chances de s\u2019\u00eatre noy\u00e9e.<\/p>\n
Comme je ne suis pas une \u00e9crivaine de m\u00e9tier, mes doigts volettent et virevoltent dans tous les sens; ils grappillent d\u2019instinct quelques jolis mots, quelques belles phrases, ou raturent tout simplement un paragraphe. Quel est donc cet app\u00e9tit d\u2019\u00e9crire qui toujours me tourmente, tels un r\u00eave \u00e9veill\u00e9, une immense faim, de fraternelles agapes \u00e0 partager? J\u2019ignore encore la suite de mon destin. En tout temps, une n\u00e9buleuse d\u2019intentions, de chim\u00e8res et de d\u00e9sirs mac\u00e8re dans mes entrailles. Dans ma caboche, dans mon c\u0153ur et dans chaque doigt qui caresse le clavier, je m\u2019efforce d\u2019\u00eatre \u00e0 la hauteur.<\/p>\n
Confus\u00e9ment, ma plume avance \u00e0 pas de tortue, mais elle ne recule jamais. Un sujet, un beau verbe et quelques adjectifs exclamatifs suffisent \u00e0 cr\u00e9er une \u00e9bauche vivante. Aurais-je besoin d\u2019un expert pour \u00e9valuer la coh\u00e9rence de mon propos? Je dors, je r\u00eave, j\u2019\u00e9cris et les pages entre elles s\u2019amoncellent. L\u2019embryon s\u2019\u00e9tire, grossit et s\u2019appr\u00eate \u00e0 me dire quelque chose. Point d\u2019exclamation, point-virgule, et point \u00e0 la ligne. \u00c9crire consiste \u00e0 accoucher d\u2019une histoire.<\/p>\n
Dans le vide interstellaire de ma caboche, j\u2019accueille ce d\u00e9but d\u2019existence telle une m\u00e8re qui d\u00e9couvre la binette de son enfant au moment de la d\u00e9livrance. Ma table de travail devient un lit de naissance, une longue page noircie que je relis et d\u00e9plie, et pour laquelle je prie.<\/p>\n
Chez d\u2019autres grands auteurs, le cerveau chemine \u00e0 la m\u00eame allure que la plume. Composition et r\u00e9daction avancent main dans la main, se mesurant et se fortifiant mutuellement jour apr\u00e8s jour. Ce n\u2019est certes pas encore mon cas, mais j\u2019esp\u00e8re. Chaque matin, mon d\u00e9sir d\u2019apprendre \u00e0 \u00e9crire gonfle comme une montgolfi\u00e8re.<\/p>\n
Enfin, selon l\u2019expert, il y a ceux dont l\u2019\u00e9criture pr\u00e9c\u00e8de le cerveau. Ceux-ci essaient des mots, voient surgir des formules ou des phrases rugissantes, des consonnes et des voyelles qui se chicanent entre elles. Ma caboche se r\u00e9v\u00e8le-t-elle encore suffisamment prompte, souple et agile pour embellir mes propos? Toutes ces ann\u00e9es \u00e0 mariner dans de multiples univers pour gagner ma vie ont envahi mon cerveau! C\u2019est sans doute pourquoi je ne peux m\u00eame plus me souvenir des magnifiques po\u00e8mes qui enorgueillissaient mes \u00e9crits de jeune \u00e9rudite. Aujourd\u2019hui, j\u2019essaie d\u2019en rire, je tente d\u2019\u00e9crire, je hurle, je fabule. Une \u00e0 une, je calcule chacune de mes virgules.<\/p>\n
D\u2019o\u00f9 me vient cet ent\u00eatement \u00e0 continuellement vouloir r\u00e9inventer mon quotidien? Ne suis-je jamais satisfaite? J\u2019ai souvenir d\u2019une citation d\u2019un auteur que j\u2019adore, mais r\u00e9cemment d\u00e9c\u00e9d\u00e9 (Paul\u00a0Auster, 1947-2024)\u00a0: \u00ab\u00a0Les bonnes choses n\u2019arrivent que lorsqu\u2019on renonce \u00e0 les esp\u00e9rer; \u00e0 l\u2019inverse, trop esp\u00e9rer les emp\u00eache de se produire\u00a0\u00bb.<\/p>\n
Un autre \u00e9minent ma\u00eetre (Thomas\u00a0Bernhard, 1931-1989) me conforte. Il m\u2019explique qu\u2019\u00e9crire, ce n\u2019est pas compliqu\u00e9. Il suffit d\u2019incliner la t\u00eate sur le papier et de laisser tomber tout ce qu\u2019il y a dedans.<\/p>\n
\u00ab\u00a0Oser l\u2019\u00e9criture, c\u2019est comme attraper un train en mouvement sans \u00eatre certain de sa destination. Et pourtant, l\u2019aventure en vaut la peine; je l\u2019exp\u00e9rimente chaque jour. Que vous passiez dans un long tunnel, sur un pont suspendu entre deux volcans ou dans une prairie tapiss\u00e9e de coquelicots, vous r\u00e9aliserez tout doucement que votre esprit ouvre des fen\u00eatres, d\u00e9fonce des portes et apprend \u00e0 ext\u00e9rioriser le meilleur de vous-m\u00eame\u00a0\u00bb. Il s\u2019agit d\u2019un extrait de mon plus r\u00e9cent livre intitul\u00e9 L\u2019ORDINAIRE ENDIMANCH\u00c9, publi\u00e9 en 2023 aux \u00e9ditions LIBRE EXPRESSION.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764\ufe0f<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
L\u2019autre soir, je feuilletais le magazine LIRE de novembre et je suis […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":56186,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-56183","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"The other night, I was perusing the pages of the November LIRE (\u201cto read\u201d in French) magazine when I came across an article about a writing workshop by well-known Franco-Belgian novelist \u00c9ric-Emmanuel Schmitt. The author described three types of writers: the one whose mind is faster than the pen, the one whose mind works as fast as the pen and the one whose pen is faster than the mind.\r\n\r\nWhat type of writer am I? I often fall asleep with a fabulous idea that I nurture, embellish and tightly hang onto until the next day. If it\u2019s raining when I open my eyes, there\u2019s a good chance my idea has already drowned.\r\n\r\nSince I\u2019m not a writer by trade, my fingers flutter and twirl in all directions; they instinctively grab a few words or a handful of smart sentences, or instead strike out a paragraph. What is this appetite for writing that incessantly torments me, like a waking dream, a great hunger, a banquet among friends? I still don\u2019t know what destiny has in store for me. A nebula of intentions, chimeras and desires swirls inside of me. I strive to do my best in my head, in my heart and with each strike of a finger on the keyboard.\r\n\r\nConfused, my pen advances at a snail\u2019s pace, but never retreats. A topic, an interesting verb and a few exclamatory adjectives suffice to create a living draft. Do I need an expert to evaluate the coherence of my words? I sleep, I dream, I write and the pages come together. The embryo stretches and grows; it\u2019s now ready to tell me something. Exclamation point, semicolon and full stop. Writing is to give birth to a story.\r\n\r\nIn the interstellar emptiness of my head, I welcome this new life like a mother who sees the face of her newborn for the first time. My work surface becomes a birthing bed, a long, darkened page that I reread and fold. I pray for its being.\r\n\r\nSometimes the brain of a great author works at the same speed as their pen. Form and function go hand in hand, pushing against and reinforcing each other day after day. It certainly isn\u2019t true in my case, but I still hope. Every morning, my desire to learn to write inflates like an irrepressible dirigible.\r\n\r\nReturning to our expert, Mr. Schmitt, there are also writers whose pen is faster than the brain. Those who try out words, watch as formulas emerge, step back as entire sentences roar to life or listen to consonants and vowels arguing among themselves. Is my mind still quick, supple and nimble enough to embellish my words? All those years spent making a living immersed in multiple universes have invaded my brain! It\u2019s probably why I can\u2019t even remember the great poems that I once proudly recited as a young scholar. Today, I try to make light of it, I try to write, I shout, I fabricate. One by one, I calculate each comma.\r\n\r\nWhence this stubbornness to constantly reinvent my daily life? Am I ever satisfied? I remember a quote from MOON PALACE by Paul Auster, who passed away in 2024 and whose writing I love: \u201cI began to notice that good things happened to me only when I stopped wishing for them. If that was true, then the reverse was true as well: wishing too much for things would prevent them from happening.\u201d\r\n\r\nAnother eminent master (Thomas\u00a0Bernhard, 1931\u20131989) comforts me. He explains to me that writing isn\u2019t complicated; all you have to do is to bend your head towards the page and let the contents fall out.\r\n\r\n\u201cDaring to write is like catching a moving train without knowing its destination. And yet, the adventure is worth it; I live it daily. Whether you\u2019re passing through a long tunnel, over a bridge suspended between two volcanoes or through a field covered in poppies, you\u2019ll slowly realize that your mind can open windows, knock down doors and learn how to express the best of yourself.\u201d A translation of an excerpt from my most recent book entitled L\u2019ORDINAIRE ENDIMANCH\u00c9, published in French in 2023 by LIBRE EXPRESSION.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764\ufe0f"},"yoast_head":"\n