Life is weird ... You are at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, leaning against a wall of a necropsy room while a doctor is being carved up the skull of a teenager killed by a bullet, and your editor calls you "Your baby has arrived" . smiling mockingly at the dictation of the charming lawyer, and soon the conclusions drawn, I'm off Rue Daru in the 8th. Manuscripts are then enclosed in plastic ; Like the corpse of the boy three hours earlier. Is torn, it takes one, one leafs through, we weigh, we shall return. Autopsy of the book. All pages are there, the chapters in order, thanks to the end, my pretty face on the back cover. Yet the emotion is not at the rendezvous. Nothing. Is the void. Blame it on fatigue, perhaps. Must also say that I read so many things on it, must say that I waited for quite some time, must say I'm pretty busy finding columnists ...
Journalists, let's talk! First, you select a good week for specialists of the detective novel, about a fifty, second, you send an email to their offer to send your fleece; tert ... No! not tertiary. There's no tertiary because the writers do not bother to respond. Only two have had this courtesy, saying that they were falling under the piles of books: Christine Ferniot and Claude Mesplède. So we resumed at the end of the primary with all the original list and they send to everyone - through the publisher - the manuscript. Hopefully they deign to have a look, as I said ... open their mail.
Finally, the world of book publishing to promotion, is indefinable, indescribable. This lack of rule that frustrates me. We are constantly in the subjective, waiting for the favorable combination of circumstances, the luck factor that you will be "chronic" if not recognized. In fact there are especially afraid of the unknown, whether it will sell. This is not about money, no, rather a question of control of events. Sales promotion = = = mouth recognition, that's how it works. And that damn virtuous circle, it is often the promotion he begins. A picture of the staircase 36, the journey is long, tiring, endless, uncertain.
Yesterday I sold my first book to a Red Cross volunteer. I learned this morning that it had fully read into the night. Passionately, I do we reported. And there I vibrated. For the first time. Today I sold thirty copies to my relatives. Colleagues primarily, who do not hesitate to order it for their parents or friends. I await their response, like the colleague who said he was excited about the plot. Tomorrow, I organize a signature in my service. I'm afraid. Fear of not finding the words when signing books, fear of erasures, fear of not having enough books on hand. Time will tell ...
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