With a fountain pen — 2023/01/05

I have written with a pen for a long time, starting in late high school. I remember ordering letterhead at the time. I created my motto with the help of an English teacher who knew Latin. Semper ipse ero.


Glimmers — 2016/07/09

My walks to work are not all equal. There are these days without thoughts, there are also these clouds in my sleep and my hopes. Then there are these morning lights, made for the pleasure of the eye, which drinks in evanescent details.


Egg and horse — 2013/06/20

A friend recently pointed out to me that I haven't written much for a long time and was quick to wonder if I wasn't out of inspiration.


The archer — 2013/04/20

Writing and singing, singing, or writing. It's all the same to me. I'm reviewing Les Mailles sanguines, learning a new melody. In both cases, it requires me to be meticulous, intense.


The sisters' cemetery — 2013/04/15

The place is peaceful, ideal for resting. It is the Manoir d'Youville in Ch√Ęteauguay, an old summer or resting residence for the Grey Nuns, and now a hotel for gatherings, meetings, retreats, choral weekends as Ganymede does every year.


Words — 2013/02/23

I'm reviewing Les Mailles sanguines in small steps, in short words. Despite a neck pain close to a stiff neck, despite tired eyes, despite the boredom of a Saturday, I dive into my mind, probably for the last time.


Vertigo — 2012/10/28

I've been writing these promenades for a little over a year. It is, therefore, a form of an anniversary. Time is an unfathomable vertigo that colors my eyes.


Window on oneself — 2012/10/04

A reader asked me a few days ago if I was such and such a character in my novel or if, in this other, the story was not autobiographical. Authors are probably smiling as they read this. This question, however obsolete it may be, nevertheless conceals a truth, even if it should not be made a generality either.


Not seeing the season — 2012/03/26

It's not that I don't have enough words. The word remains voluble in my thoughts. However, it is elsewhere than on the Internet, in the mesh of my novel. Writing bewitches me, almost forbids my other visions as if my mind was ignited by a single doctrine.


The calm writing — 2012/03/15

The seasons roll on a bumpy path. That will not change tomorrow. Many people already dream of relaxing on the terraces, but winter still continues to pour its snow from time to time, which, in theory, is legal until spring arrives. Then we can cry, but for now, let's endure it!


Finding your words again — 2012/03/07

I completed the reading of the Le Gardien du feu and immediately immersed myself in Letters to a young poet from Rilke. At the same time, I continue in parallel, the review of Les Mailles sanguines. The comparison of writing breaths is inevitable even if criticism, as Rilke suggests in his first letter, is unnecessary.


The legends — 2012/02/29

I was talking to a friend about a beautiful piece we're learning at the choir. I told him that the text set to music was by Rilke.


Recovered manuscript — 2012/01/22

My former publisher returned my manuscript to me, annotated it. The package was damaged, inserted in a Canada Post envelope, which mechanically apologized in the flattest possible way. Twenty percent of the pages are still missing. The package visibly dropped, the envelope used by my publisher, which was not designed for such a large number of pages, opened and some of the contents vanished. It took me a good half hour to order what could be retrieved.


The Twelve Kingdoms — 2011/12/31

It's an idea that's been coming up for a very long time. It is the result of a dream. I am inside an icy little house, I open the door that goes onto a winter outside. A quiet early morning, a starry mist welcomes a sun that announces a cold day. There is a road in front of the house, which a hedge partially masks.


The calm swell of old couples — 2011/12/21

I pulled out my iPad, in the subway, opened a mind-mapping application to lay the first foundations of a novel. The subject is still too vague in my lazy little head, and probably also stuck to my reality. Since my story is still out there, it is difficult, even dangerous, to seek a conclusion.


Like at the station — 2011/12/14

Sometimes we feel on days like there is nothing else to do but wait for the next ones, that what could happen the next day would be better than the current grey of the rising sun.


Are we? — 2011/11/13

I dreamt that a well-known publishing house would return my manuscript to me with a letter of vehement nonsense and tell me not to write a single word again. I was new in a convoluted office. My colleagues looked like people I knew.


The illusions — 2011/10/21

The last chapter is written slowly. At the same time, the workload, the one who helps me put butter on my bread, which also helps me buy this bread, increases, new responsibilities arise, negotiations drag on (but in a constructive way) with a bank, my grandmother, almost a hundred years old, feels tired, is in the hospital.