A publisher says "yes"

The answer finally came. Some people, who read many manuscripts, decided that mine was worth it. The contract is not signed, I do not immediately reveal the name of the publishing house; let us call it superstition. Anyway, I can tell the story of a bottle of sparkling wine waiting for its time in the bottom of my refrigerator.

When I bought my house, a friend brought me this bottle as a congratulation. I put it away and then forgot it. Last October, a publisher sent me an e-mail announcing that my manuscript had reached the first reading stage and that I would receive a reply within two weeks. A nice coincidence, I was cleaning a cupboard and fell on the bottle, well hidden, at the bottom, in a cloth bag. Surprised, I decided to put it in the fridge, telling myself that chance was doing things really well.

And then, a long silence of five months, interspersed with two messages inviting me to be patient. In January, I was wondering if I shouldn’t take the bottle out, drink it to soothe my anguish or, in the worst case, my pain. Waiting can hurt if you don’t take care of it, if you don’t accept, at first, to let things go, to rely on fate, on your deceased forebears, on the moon that sets the pace of emotions. Waiting ends up making you age a little more, even if, in any case, you always age a little more, with joys and sorrows.

Today, I didn’t decide to take the bottle out. I’m waiting to sign. I, however, called everyone, I would have shouted it right away on Facebook, on Google, I instead canceled my singing lesson, I also canceled a dinner with a friend, then told my two friends on the ground floor that I wanted to stay with them.

I still can’t believe it. I am proud of my text and will look at it again with a magnifying glass, with the help of a friend, before leaving it totally in the hands of the publisher. Writing is designing, publishing, really giving birth. I know, however, that there are many ways to give birth. This sixth novel does not make me a celebrity -- and God knows how many authors have received awards and few people know about their existence -- no, fame doesn’t matter, there’s no point in swelling up more than the ego needs. Of course, I do.

I wouldn’t want to fall into clichés. So I’ll keep my mouth shut. We have to keep going. Tomorrow will always be another day to start again.

Still, it doesn’t change his world, but...