Bon ben c'est plutôt bien parti, plus de 8000 mots à mon actif à l'heure où nous parlons, je vise les 10k ce soir au plus tard. Premières impressions : écrire dans une langue qui n'est pas ma langue maternelle c'est compliqué, mais toutes mes lectures en anglais font que je ne passe pas non plus trop de temps à chercher le vocabulaire adéquat. Je ne produirai certainement pas les 90k de l'an dernier (je me demande encore comment j'ai réalisé ça), mais les 50k tomberont certainement, sauf catastrophe de dernière minute.
Et maintenant, place à l'extrait ! (le prologue, en fait).
Being a vampire sucks.
I mean that literally, even if I admit I couldn't resist the pun. In movies, in books, Lestat and consorts are just so smooth, so suave, reeking of charm and elegance, as if immortality could give you even better looks than you had to begin with – and they always seem to have a hefty dose of that.
I'm afraid, in my case anyway, that it did not work like that. The ten extra pounds on my hips didn't magically go away. That broken nail is still giving me hell. I may count myself fortunate that I went to the hairstylist one week before being turned, so that is a concern avoided, but I sure hope I won't get fed up with that particular style. I'm stuck with it for who knows how long.
Am I not immortal though ? One may ask, feeling that my petty concerns about my appearance are just that : petty. After all, I will live forever, lurking in the shadows, feeding on other humans, powerful beyond belief. Yeah, right.
Problem is, I am not particularly powerful. I feel good, in better shape than I have ever been, even, but that is not a difficult feat. I'm no longer out of breath after an effort, but it might have to do with the fact that I'm not breathing anyway. So I can run long distances, without feeling my heart pumping and my lungs burning – without feeling them do anything. I can do things I would not have dared before, but only because I know there is no risk to my physical integrity. I'm still limited by my human strength, and it was not anything to talk about, back when I was human. Same for my speed : no blurry silhouette for me. I cannot jump on top of buildings, though I might be able to climb them if there are hand holds enough. I cannot beat the crap out of a big guy, but I guess he'll have trouble hurting me at all – in the end I just might be the only one standing, out of sheer resistance to harm.
And as for mental superpowers ? Didn't get these either. Nope, not me. A bit of glamour, just enough so I can feed and stay alive, but in college you learn to rely on mini-skirts and low necklines to do the job. Also, they forgot the attack, but with no conscious action on my part. No hypnosis. No mental manipulation. Not even a sexier voice. So no wonder I feel cheated! Immortality in these conditions doesn't look like a lot of fun to me. Not that I'm even certain to be immortal; the guy who did this to me didn't exactly stop to chat.
I mean that literally, even if I admit I couldn't resist the pun. In movies, in books, Lestat and consorts are just so smooth, so suave, reeking of charm and elegance, as if immortality could give you even better looks than you had to begin with – and they always seem to have a hefty dose of that.
I'm afraid, in my case anyway, that it did not work like that. The ten extra pounds on my hips didn't magically go away. That broken nail is still giving me hell. I may count myself fortunate that I went to the hairstylist one week before being turned, so that is a concern avoided, but I sure hope I won't get fed up with that particular style. I'm stuck with it for who knows how long.
Am I not immortal though ? One may ask, feeling that my petty concerns about my appearance are just that : petty. After all, I will live forever, lurking in the shadows, feeding on other humans, powerful beyond belief. Yeah, right.
Problem is, I am not particularly powerful. I feel good, in better shape than I have ever been, even, but that is not a difficult feat. I'm no longer out of breath after an effort, but it might have to do with the fact that I'm not breathing anyway. So I can run long distances, without feeling my heart pumping and my lungs burning – without feeling them do anything. I can do things I would not have dared before, but only because I know there is no risk to my physical integrity. I'm still limited by my human strength, and it was not anything to talk about, back when I was human. Same for my speed : no blurry silhouette for me. I cannot jump on top of buildings, though I might be able to climb them if there are hand holds enough. I cannot beat the crap out of a big guy, but I guess he'll have trouble hurting me at all – in the end I just might be the only one standing, out of sheer resistance to harm.
And as for mental superpowers ? Didn't get these either. Nope, not me. A bit of glamour, just enough so I can feed and stay alive, but in college you learn to rely on mini-skirts and low necklines to do the job. Also, they forgot the attack, but with no conscious action on my part. No hypnosis. No mental manipulation. Not even a sexier voice. So no wonder I feel cheated! Immortality in these conditions doesn't look like a lot of fun to me. Not that I'm even certain to be immortal; the guy who did this to me didn't exactly stop to chat.
Mais comment fais-tu ?
RépondreSupprimerJ'écris en français et je produis beaucoup, beaucoup moins (à tel point que je songe de plus en plus sérieusement à inclure dans mon wordcount tout ce que je réécris pour mon autre roman, celui sur lequel je ne suis pas du tout à la bourre, nooon).
J'écris déjà dans les transports, je pense que ça aide - c'est 1000 mots facile par jour ça ! Mais je crois qu'à ta place je l'inclurais, le retravail sur l'autre roman. Après tout, c'est du roman écrit en novembre. Nanorebelling ?
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