When I look at my notebook (did I ever mention I’m in love with notebooks and bujo?), I can see that in November I wrote every single day but 3: the day I got one tooth pulled out and was pretty much knocked out by anesthesia, the day we had a huge water pipe leakage that damaged the neighbors’ living room downstairs and the day we learnt that Donald Trump had been elected President of the United States.
Catastrophes big and small. But still writing, because this place has been such a happy place for me. November is a month of gratefulness, and I was grateful for books, and for bookish friends, and that’s what I wanted to share above all by writing about good books.
But writing fiction, in face of small and big catastrophes, often feel useless, shallow, a distraction away from what really matters. Perhaps I should do something else. Perhaps I should not spend time with my computer writing about things that are in my head and rather be with my family and friends. Perhaps wondering if I’m going to get published is just small and selfish.
On the other hand, I made some real progress because I decided to applied my to-do-list approach to the tasks that were most daunting to me: find a place to do my edits, find publishing houses that consider short stories and novellas. Places for freelance workers are flourishing these days in Paris, and I found a list of boutique hotels where you can rent by the hour a spot in their breakfast room, that is quite empty after mid-morning, and you can work there rather than staying in a noisy café and overstaying your welcome there. There are now many other co-working options (I walked by this one a few days ago), but what I need is mostly quiet, few people and little-to-no internet connection (but a power outlet). It’s very motivating for me to go to a place to do those edits I fear!