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When are you going to write a second book?
A question I’ve often been asked. At least at one time. Less so now. And yet, yes, I do think I’d write a second one. But what to write? A simple travelogue? It seems insufficient, already done, already seen. So what’s it to be? Reflections on travel, on this ever-changing world? But what legitimacy would I have? Who am I? You’re nobody! And would I presume to believe that my opinion would be of any interest to others? What else? Telling the story of others? Drawing portraits? Yes, I like that. The first book was relatively easy to write, even if I took my time. I had a story, that of a first trip, a dream of traveling through Africa. There was the story of a love affair, a painful prelude to this journey, and above all I had a muse, without whom this book would never have seen the light of day. I can confess that now. The most difficult part was the part about Odile. Without the impetus, the injunction of the pink panther, for such was the nickname of the woman who was my inspiration, this part would never have seen the light of day. I wrote it in Martinique, on a friend’s terrace, facing the sea. A bottle of rum by my side, the only way to relive the pain. But that’s the past. I’ve been thinking about writing again for a long time now. You have to start somewhere. Take the first step. It’s often the most difficult. Just like setting off on another trip. Restarting the machine. Moving forward. As I write these lines, I’m sitting on a terrace in Ouarzazate. Today’s weather is quite mild, unlike previous days. A cat seems to be watching me, comfortably seated on a chair a few steps away. Perhaps it’s a cousin of the one that jumped on my tent 3 days ago in the middle of the night, puncturing the fragile nylon canvas of its roof. Since then, I’ve been dreaming of a good cat tagine. Poor thing, if he knew, he’d run. I wander, I ramble, I get lost. Writing, yes, that’s the subject. That’s what I do, but I let my thoughts and fingers run across the keyboard without any real goal or guiding idea. I wander around a bit like I do when I’m browsing through a souk. I still don’t know if I’ll keep this text. A teapot sits on the table next to the computer. A glass of mint tea replaces the glass of rum I used to drink between two texts, between two sentences. On my Mac, I’ve created 3 sub-directories: “Portraits”, “Stories” and “Wandering thoughts”. This is how I imagine my next book, should it see the light of day. A mixture of narrative, portraits and wandering thoughts. As I write these lines, I’m listening to “Two steps from hell” by Vanquish, and I tell myself it’s time to tell you about the beginning of my journey. But not in the form of a simple narrative. Because the beginning of a journey is above all a very special time: the time of adaptation. So, since I haven’t yet written this text, I’ll give you the title: ADAPTATIONS. In the plural! It’s important.
In closing, I’d like to make Montaigne’s profession of faith my own:
“If the weather isn’t fine on the right, I take the left; if I find myself unfit to ride, I stop… Have I left something to see behind me? I’ll go back; it’s still my way.”
And I promise I’ll start writing again… it’s just that I’m in a phase of entering the nomadic life… and as Luc so aptly puts it: there’s no plan. I simply have a direction: the South. Hopefully, my wandering won’t tire my traveling companion in the long run.
And for those who’d like more details, I invite you to read Baptiste’s blog: www.laventurierviking.fr
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