This is my story.

For context, I’ve lived most of my life in rather ‘normal’ areas and only ever had access to standard, ‘plebeian’ sports facilities. Honestly, I’ve never been too big on fitness, so it’s not as if I have much experience. Still, I’ve done some fitness before, so I can compare.

But let me tell you about this place now.

The first thing that strikes you about the Rolls-Royce of fitness clubs (apart from the price, really) is that it’s located in this five-star hotel. Just getting inside that place makes one feel like Cinderella. At first, I tried going there dressed like a bag, but I attracted too many disapproving looks—at best. At worst, the security dude at the entrance actually looked through my bag at my undies and dirty socks. So, I started making an effort. Of course, I can’t quite compete with the folks in there, arriving in cars that would cost someone’s life savings and wearing eccentric outfits lined with fur or even bizarre semi-long jackets that look like 19th-century coats.

Anyway, in the fitness club of the super-rich, once you reach the reception, the staff actually jumps from their seats to welcome you—and they stay standing until you’re done with them, however long that might take. There are several of them, and they don’t all need to serve you, but up they stand in deference. There’s a little lodge with a man ready to take your stuff, and as I hand over my puffy coat, I usually make sure to hide its holes with dignity. On my back, I can feel the eyes of the remaining staff, staring, waiting… Honestly, it feels awkward, but maybe this is something one gets used to. Once done, I dart past them, muttering something polite, and I can feel them landing back onto their seats behind me like robots.

In the ‘basement’—there should be another name for this; it doesn’t do it justice— you find what you’d expect from a fitness club: locker rooms, a gym with machines, etc. There’s also an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Mind-blowingly there’s also an actual fully equipped bar. In fact, on the little tables lining the long chairs in the swimming pool area, there are little buttons to summon the bar staff so they can bring you an overpriced cocktail or even some food from the hotel (I don’t want to know how much that costs). Moving into the locker room, you discover something new, something you hardly suspect. The super-rich are just a different kind of people; they have a different notion of what constitutes routine pleasure. Let me explain.

Maybe I’m an individualist, but I sort of like handling my own underwear. In this locker room, some of the members walk in with an air of importance, flanked by a member of staff who then proceeds to empty their bag for them with deference and hang everything on small hangers in their lockers. Also, incredibly, they line up all their little thingies (razors, brushes, you name it) on a specially provided little towel on the seat next to them. This blows my mind. The guy is literally getting fully naked while a smiling butler stands there like a board and hands him his swimming trunks from his bag. I wonder how much extra they have to pay to get this service. I’m also vaguely disappointed that they don’t fan them with a palm leaf in between the dressing-up moments or pick up their nose hairs with golden tweezers (okay, maybe they do that actually—I didn’t go to the beauty salon).

Anyway, usually, in the locker room, I don’t let myself feel intimidated (even when members pass little banknotes to the staff as a thank-you for their subservience). I’m a member too, goddammit! My stuff doesn’t go all tidy onto hangers but gets balled up in the top area, and I exit the locker room as fast as I can. The reason for this is that the lads just like being naked. They don’t just get naked and switch to whatever outfit is needed. No, they walk around naked, go to the mirrors naked, have phone calls naked, and chat with each other for a while fully naked. I guess it’s a thing. It sort of shows that you don’t care—you’re tough, you’re not shy (or French). As a visual person, I can tell you that this leaves quite the impression on me.

But onwards to the gym area and the myriad of complicated machines available! I’m dressed in my worst t-shirt (why sweat in my nice ones?), mismatched socks, and the cheapest sneakers I can find at the mall. In that space, everyone is working out hard. But it’s also a bit of a surreal area. In French, we say ‘La cour des miracles’ when a place is either badly frequented (could be the case here, who knows?) or simply very eccentric—a bit surreal. Well, that gym room has that distinct feel. For starters, these guys don’t just go exercise—they take private coaching sessions. So, as I’m breathing like a walrus on my elliptical bicycle and loathing myself for all that I’ve smoked and eaten over the past few years, I see a procession of men and women, flanked by super coaches, going through the drills. There’s the bloke who yells like he’s having wild sex as he pumps iron—sharing the experience with everyone, thank you very much. There’s the lady walking around with her coach and her BODYGUARD. Yes, the big lad follows closely as she does her fitness. Actually, he looks at everyone—and me in particular—with suspicion. As if I’d be able to get into any form of physical violence while agonizing on the treadmill…. There’s also the pensioner who takes some kind of boxing one-on-one session and hisses and grunts like a ninja warrior. And the list goes on…

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After putting my body (and my brain) through such a brutal workout, I make my way back to the locker room—I don’t even see the hairy naked bodies anymore; I’m empty, I’m done. Time for a swim, time for a shower, but first… time for a trip to the hammam! Yes, the hammam—you read that right. Actually, there’s also a sauna in the male area, but everyone is always naked in there, so I avoid it. Sometimes I pass in front of the glass door, and some guy is standing right there, facing the door, fully naked, eyes closed, striking a power pose. I usually speed past when that happens. The hammam is for both men and women, so I’m protected from shocking visuals in there. However, some odd things still happen in the hammam for the super-rich.

Okay, for context, a hammam is a kind of sauna but wet. It’s full of steam, super hot, etc. You go in there, and you can barely breathe. You just sit down in a corner and sweat like a pig for a while before you can’t take it any longer and wobble out like a warm dumpling. Yet, in that clearly hostile environment, I see the lads doing some bizarre stuff. There’s this big elderly man for instance with a huge mustache, who likes planking on the central stone in front of everyone. I mean… I don’t usually plank at all—it’s quite hard, actually. I don’t think I’ll be doing much planking when I’m elderly either. But planking as an elderly person on a stone, at 140°F, while I struggle to breathe? I know I 100% will not do this.

So yeah, the hammam. I actually quite like it, but folks’ behavior blows my mind. I swear I’ve never seen, in a ‘normal people’ gym, folks leave taps open after themselves like I see in that place. This is something that triggers me somehow—Jesus, is it so hard to turn a tap OFF? A shower OFF? Do people need a valet to do that behind them as well? I find myself grudgingly turning taps off behind people in that place…. And for free!

One of the last things I usually do before leaving my oligarch fitness club is go for a little swim. There’s a large swimming pool, as I was saying, Olympic-sized. But that does not deter an oligarch from jumping and swimming into YOUR lane, even though there are free lanes next to it. Okay, I feel like I’m a pool lane extremist, but isn’t there an agreed-upon etiquette? Like, if there’s one free lane, the person is expected to go to that lane, no? It’s like on the train—if you’re alone in a carriage and there are 80 seats available, it would be weird for someone to come sit right next to you, right? Or am I crazy? Well, the oligarch doesn’t care. If they’ve laid eyes on YOUR lane, then you should be ready to make way—they will not budge.

After the swim, it’s time for a quick shower in what I shall call the spit room. Actually, this isn’t really only happening at the super-rich’s gym—I think it’s a male thing—but I’ll make a brave stand against it here today anyway. What is wrong with all these gentlemen’s throats? Everyone is clearing their throat and spitting in there like they’ve just been pepper-sprayed. I’m quietly trying to enjoy the expensive soap, trying to relax, but I suddenly feel surrounded by a herd of pterodactyls. It literally makes me self-conscious about my own throat hygiene. Like… I actually never thought of that area as needing such thorough cleaning before. But no, I shall resist that urge. I shall remain non-dinosaur.

Oh well. As you can see, I still have a lot to learn to make it as an oligarch—quite clearly... Well, especially when it comes to the money aspect of it, of course. But I’m sure my loyal Substack subscribers will fund my ascent to oligarch status! (Hint: Subscribe now, and I’ll name a running tap after you.) But this whole thing is, for me, quite a new experience… a glimpse into the world of people living on the same planet as us but in a parallel universe somehow.

I still have months left on my subscription, so I don’t rule out turning full pterodactyl along the way. Maybe one day, I too will stand naked in the sauna, eyes closed, exuding power. Maybe I’ll have my gym bag carried for me, my post-workout towel ceremoniously placed at my feet. Maybe I’ll even leave the odd tap running—just because I can. But for now, I remain a mere infiltrator, reporting back from the gilded trenches.

Stay tuned.

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Have you ever felt, while looking at the horizon, that some big changes were coming your way? That’s exactly how I felt recently while gazing at the Bosphorus in Turkey. All the ships heading in different directions, choosing paths that will lead them to unknown places, far, far away. A place where two sides of the world, two civilizations meet across the sea—East and West, united. It’s a sensation of standing at the center of everything. There’s something both vertiginous and unsettling about the horizon opening up before us. Our minds and bodies can sense it—those moments when life is about to change drastically, when we stand at a crossroads and know that nothing will ever be the same again.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. Some of you even PMed me to check if I was alright (thank you, by the way!). Honestly, I’m not entirely sure how alright I am. The last couple of months have felt like a hammer blow. Between revising my novel (then pausing it), writing treatments for a couple of film projects that I hope will go into development this year, producing tons of animation, and, of course, parenting with barely any help—I haven’t been able to think straight, let alone write for this blog. Honestly, it’s a mystery to me how I managed to post every week for a while. Things got so intense that my body finally broke down, and I ended up sick in bed for two weeks, completely unable to function.

As is often the case in such situations, the unsubscriptions started flowing in, and guilt over neglecting Substack crept in. But sometimes, you have to prioritize what actually brings in money and long-term opportunities. Don’t get me wrong—this blog is a long-term project for me. But I’ve never deluded myself into thinking it would be a source of income.

The most fundamental shift I can sense this year is the return of filmmaking. I feel it like a horn sounding through a misty valley. It’s been years since I directed a film, and the moment a producer asked me to provide some treatments, I immediately put my novel on hold and dove into it. I have a strong feeling that some film projects are just around the corner, and their pull is hard to resist. But for now—perhaps sadly—it’s all about surviving. Maybe when my kids are a bit older, things will calm down, and I’ll find a healthier rhythm.

It’s strange how film has always had this hold on me. It’s a bit like a drug, and when it comes calling, I’m unable to resist it. I think it’s because directing touches all the artistic disciplines that I hold dear—storytelling, photography, music, acting. For me, it’s like a cocktail that goes straight to my brain. When I write for too long without directing, I start going a bit stir crazy.

I miss the direct connection with you all, though. This blog has always been a way to check in with myself through the blank page. I’ve drawn so much warmth from our interactions here. For now, though, I’ll have to put my head down and tackle each task one at a time until my horizon clears a little. Then, hopefully, I can reconnect with Substack and, more broadly, with writing.

One thing that comforts me is the sense that I’m not the only one facing these kinds of challenges as the new year begins. It’s difficult for most of us to stick to the rhythm and discipline required to hold everything together.

Anyway, as I often find when I’m unsure what to write about, the best thing is simply to share what’s on my mind. At the very least, it’s a way to let those of you who reached out know how I’m doing.

I don’t have much time to write anything deeper—my little one keeps slamming the keyboard, and a French cartoon is blasting on the TV, disrupting my concentration. Parenting is undoubtedly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I love my little ones to bits, but they are relentless, at full throttle from morning until they collapse with fatigue. But I’m alright, though—that’s all that matters.

I’ll keep looking at the horizon, eager to see what awaits me this year. I can feel big changes coming, and I can’t wait to find out what they are.

I hope you’ve had an easier start to the year than I have, and I sincerely hope I’ll be able to post more regularly soon. Wishing you all a happy new year—may the horizon hold amazing changes for us all.

Write for nothing at all.

Write without special offers, without a schedule. For horizons past and future, and the words left unsaid.

Write for yourself, to make sense of the madness, to forget about Pampers, dishwasher pods, and the absurd world around you.

Write for rage, to let it all out, to transcend it, to shape it into something greater—something tangible, something that makes sense.

Write for the dreams, to protect them and let them grow. To save them from dying.

Write for nothing at all.

Forget about money for a while, don’t tie writing to it, let it fly free. Remember why you do this.

Write for love—for what you have and what you'll never. Write to celebrate the line in between.

Write for the seasons still left to you, for the infinite universe, for that flame inside of you that refuses to be extinguished.

Write about the injustice, the monstrous stupidity and inequalities.

Write for anything you want, for nothing at all.

Stop with the methods, the growth, the strategies. Write to bare your soul for all to see.

Show who you really are, don’t hide anything. Let it all out, come what may.

Write for the child that you were, for the dreams that remain, for tomorrow.

Write to remind yourself to write, and why you do it.

Write for all that is fragile and beautiful, and never let it die.

Write for nothing at all.

Write.

It’s 04:52 a.m. I drag myself out of bed in a blur of confusing thoughts. The cough is here already, shaking my entire body. It’s dark, cold, and my head spins slightly, yet I’m thinking about you, dear edit. Already. I manage to make my way to the kitchen while coughing and prepare myself a delicious coffee. The taste is bitter, like you, dear edit. I look at the milk mixing up lazily with the coffee, and my thoughts are already full of story, full of possibilities. Some good, some bad—mostly bad.

I take a sip of brown and stumble to the bathroom to spit. It’s harsh, and the cough shakes my entire body until my belly hurts. Lovely way to start the day. I avoid looking at my puffy self in the mirror—no need for that reality check right now—and half-yawn, half-cough as I make my way to the office in the heavy darkness. In the bedroom, my three hearts are sleeping tight, blissfully unaware of the impending literary war. I lift my feet, one after another, until I reach my writing room. It’s a mess in there. A reassuring mess, though. My kind of chaos. Yet, the small sofa is already calling to me, seducing me with the promise of sleep. But I’m thinking of you, dear edit. The toxic relationship continues. I open the window, and the freezing air envelops me, both awakening me and inspiring new bouts of coughing. So, naturally, that’s when I roll the first of many cigarettes. Yes, I’ve started smoking again. Goddamnit. Even though emphysema runs in my family. I know I shouldn’t, but, hey, if I’m going to self-destruct, I might as well do it thoroughly, right?

The pages are in front of me—blinking in and out of existence—as I stare through the words. Meaningless and meaningful—because why would my brain choose just one? The smoke fills me, bitter and raw, awakening me properly. I feel like some old, creaky demon ready for his day’s mischief. Mischief in the form of a rewrite. I blow smoke everywhere like some kind of tortured artist cliché. Yet, I’m already thinking of the next cigarette. Did I mention emphysema? Let’s pretend I didn’t.

My hands are shaking from the meds. Nothing is moving outside but for the few wolves like me who come alive deep into the night. And what am I thinking of? You, dear edit. Always. Of the strain, of the joy mixed with anxiety that defines you. You're exhausting, but you're also kind of thrilling. A terrible thrill, like skydiving without a parachute.

Yes, I received the letter from my editor, and I’m doing just fine. And by fine, I mean “fine” in the same way you say it when someone asks how you're doing and you're really spiraling into a black hole. The letter was polite, with plenty of positives, but it also meant a rewrite. A face-off with the reality of my novel’s current state: Not there. Not yet anyway. It’s the first time for me. I’ve never worked with an editor before, and I’m already rolling another cigarette. This is apparently my coping strategy now—rolling and rewriting. I contemplate, in between long streams of smoke, what has happened to me. Why am I such a wreck, even though I know what to do? I know. I was worried it would be heartbreaking, but I got the validation I was looking for from the edit. So, what’s wrong with me? Why has it put me in such a state emotionally? I guess it’s the shifting sands. One minute I could see a castle, the next, just dunes of sand. Writing is just so fun. So why am I pouring my heart out on Substack instead? I should be working. I guess it needs to come out somehow. It requires it. Apparently, sharing my melodrama with you is part of the process now. Lucky you.

Why write at all? The sofa is tempting. So tempting. But it’s needed. Despite the cough, despite the cold, despite my trembling hands, I hit that keyboard with all my turmoil. It’s because of these moments of grace. Yes, despite it all, I’m addicted to them. To when the keyboard refuses to stop, when the ideas become all-important and unstoppable. I need it. I shiver for it. It’s either that or shivering from the cold, which I still haven’t fixed.

It would be so easy to pretend. To act as if it was all plain sailing. I know what some will say: writing should be fun, and I shouldn’t put myself through this routine. But half the time, it is fun. And the other half of the time it leaves me punch-drunk, my head too filled with characters, stories, meaning, and meaninglessness to function. I need to talk about it to my therapist again. If someone is punch-drunk with repetition, it must be her... poor woman.

I stare at Scrivener. A maze of files aptly named plot 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8… and counting. I feel the pull to add another one. Or collapse on the sofa for some more sleep. Decisions, decisions. I’m exhausted, but I must go on. I know that this is what makes the difference between the amateur and the pro. And I am a pro. Or, am I? Let’s not go there.

I’ve never been through anything like it with a film script. This is turning out to be quite a challenge. But despite the haze of smoke in the office, despite the coffee already cold, and the sweaty feet in my slippers, I keep going.

I knew this edit would lead to a full rewrite. I knew it even before the letter. So why am I being such a drama king? People are dying out there. They are hungry. This is just a book. There are millions of books on Amazon already, haven’t you heard? The market is saturated. Everything is saturated. So, why another book in the first place?

I have agreed with my therapist that I wouldn’t and couldn’t stop writing. It’s a need, something spiritual. Maybe this is just my way, or maybe there is a better way. A healthy way at the very least. This goddamn emphysema…

Amongst my morning fuzz, I’m reminded of Substack. I haven’t posted in a full month. That’s bad. People will forget about me, subscribers will disappear by the dozens. But none of this happened, not yet anyway. I’m scrolling through my notifications, coughing my heart out and wondering how many of you are like me. Find it hard, find it pressing. And how many have a healthier relationship with writing. I’m awed by the amount of us. Are we all writers—for real? Can it be true?

How many are up at this very moment coughing out onto a blank page? I lay down, headfirst, on my desk and remain, smelling the wood and feeling incredibly dramatic at the same time. And then an idea comes through me. A flicker at first. Is it plot? Is it character? I don’t even know at this stage, but all is soon forgotten. I open Scrivener and start typing like a maniac. My heart beats in my ears, the world becomes a blur. For a while, there is nothing—no cigarettes, no cold from the open window, no discomfort from my bare sweaty feet. Just me, the words, and that fleeting moment of clarity.

In this moment of grace, it all makes complete sense. It all aligns perfectly. And then, naturally, the guilt kicks in. I feel like my family deserves better, that I’m neglecting too much for this one moment. I feel like I should jump out of bed every morning and go for a run, shake those weird, heavy ropes outside, and cough out all the smoking. I wish I could write like this all the time. I sincerely do. But maybe one doesn’t fully choose. Or maybe I just need to get myself together and pull through. This book is stirring the beast in me, and yes, I know I’m being overly dramatic. But why stop now?

What good can sharing this on Substack bring? It would be so much easier to write a positive post. My ten tips for writing fresh in the morning, perhaps. Or perhaps some kind of promotion. I see a lot of promotions these days. Who needs negativity in their lives right now? But then I remind myself that I don’t care. I can lose all my subscribers tomorrow; I’m ready for it. Blogging will only ever make sense if it’s sincere, if it takes risks. At least for me.

I slowly let the smoke blow through my nose. My fingers are tapping the keyboard, in a pleasant rhythm. Outside the window, life is starting already, but I have time. Plenty of time. Will I ever crack this novel? I don’t know, but I know that I’m up, and that despite it all, I’m hungry for more. Hungry for the chaos, the struggle, and—yes—the fleeting moments of grace that make it all worth it. In the end, isn’t that what this is all about? The next cigarette, the next draft, the next wave of uncertainty. After all, what else is there but to keep going?

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Dearest reader,

I’ve now been lying in a hospital emergency bed for four days after a severe appendicitis crisis. For the first time in my life, I’ve had serious surgery. Illusion of invulnerability now well shattered, thank you. Fun fact: a few hundred years ago, this would have been the end of me.

Obviously, spending days with a thingie in your arm fitted for various bags of liquid works a charm in terms of reminding you how fragile we all are. It’s obvious. It’s nonetheless true. From one breath to another, we can end up in a bed with our bodies failing and suddenly nothing matters anymore other than this bag of meat that we’ve taken for granted all this time.

Strangely, this whole hospital situation has put me in a foul mood. First, I’ve been confined to a small sticky bed and have been feverish, going from uncontrollable shivers to effusive sweat crises. Second, I don’t like being reminded of such things as my mortality. I prefer to wallow in a fake sense of specialness.

I’m obviously very lucky. Appendicitis can be lethal, but it’s a benign procedure. I’ve been surrounded by folks whose bodies are really collapsing, and of course, my current rant feels a bit self-conscious. I’ll blame it on you, dear reader. Yes, you needed to be reminded of how lucky you are. Unless of course, you are not so lucky, in which case I truly empathise with you.

The other reason why I feel in such a foul mood is the doctors. It’s hard to face up to people who are most definitely making a real difference on a daily basis without feeling a sliver of envy. I know that story and fiction have a huge role, and that they serve a very real purpose. But doctors… They look so tired from saving people, as if the weight of their own heroism is too much to bear. Maybe I should have been a doctor; certainly, that’s what my mother would have wanted for me.

On the other hand, it has made me reflect on why I’m doing what I do. It’s easy, when making films or writing fiction, to start worrying about the critic, the reviewer. But if I could even slightly entertain an emergency doctor during their shift break, if I managed to bring a smile to their faces or allowed them to escape for a fraction of a second, I would feel complete. Don’t write for critics, people. Don’t write for success. Write for the heroes.

I’m hoping to go home tomorrow. Hoping that this night will be the last in the ‘real world’, and also fever-free. Nightmare-free. I’m waiting for my gut to heal properly so I can come out and play the big game again with everyone. So I can stop counting the fire alarms on the ceiling and comparing their shades of white. I think about the people who are stuck in a hospital right now, or who have to spend a significant amount of time there because of their damaged envelopes. I think about how unfair it all is, about how awards, festivals, agents, prestige, and status can do nothing against an infection. Of course, it could be said of everything, and then nothing would matter anymore, so better not go this way.

Let’s just say that it’s good to be reminded every so often that most of what we deeply care about is just a game. That we are blessed with health, and more fragile than we look, and that it’s easy to forget this. Also, let’s be reminded of how heroic the bloody doctors are and that it’s preferable not to be an asshole to them, but rather to help them by offering good fiction, not solely written to impress an agent or a festival.

I’ve got a feeling I might regret this post tomorrow when I’m less feverish. Too bad. I’m alive, that’s all that counts.

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Writing satire, especially here on Substack, is harder than it looks. Well, at least Carlos makes it look easy, and that’s why I’m a great admirer of his work.

So now, without further ado, let’s dive into his Proust Questionnaire.

Also don’t forget to check out Carlos here 👇

Shades of Greaves

A humor column from New Yorker and McSweeney's contributor Carlos Greaves

By Carlos Greaves

Carlos what is your idea of perfect happiness?

I’m of two minds about this, because on one hand, my idea of happiness is being financially comfortable to the point where I could spend my time creating art without worrying about money. On the other hand, I feel like a truer definition of happiness is possessing the ability to accept life’s inherent uncertainties and finding joy regardless of one’s situation in life. Neither feels within reach right now, but I’m trying to get there.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?

As a satirist who has written extensively about impending catastrophes like climate change and the U.S. political situation, Cassandra immediately comes to mind. But since she’s a mythological figure and not a historical figure, I’ll go with Voltaire. However, I hope you don’t mistake that as me comparing the quality of my writing to that of Voltaire. I am a way better writer than Voltaire.

Which living person do you most admire?

Jimmy Carter. Underrated president. Undeniably good human.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

I wish I wasn’t so uncomfortable in my own skin. I’ve always been a very self-conscious person and it’s led to a great deal of social anxiety that’s been a constant source of stress in my life. Other than that, I’m pretty awesome.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

I can’t stand people who are deliberately rude to others, whether it’s writing an ugly comment online or treating a waiter disrespectfully. It blows my mind that anyone can be a full-grown adult and still believe that type of behavior is acceptable. 

What is your greatest extravagance?

Having TSA Pre-check. I travel on a semi-regular basis for work and that luxury makes the airport experience vastly more comfortable. I feel like such an aristocrat breezing past the long, slow-moving, regular security line. I imagine that’s how actual aristocrats must feel about flying first class or private.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

I think the most overrated virtue is the belief that the world is divided into good and evil. Think about all of the worst humans who have ever existed. All of them believed themselves to be good people trying to rid the world of evil people. In my mind, there’s nothing more dangerous than someone who is convinced they are a good person. That’s how people justify committing atrocities.

On what occasion do you lie?

When I lie, it’s most often to spare someone’s feelings. Though I did once lie to avoid getting into a fist fight. I was pulling into a parking garage and stopped to read the signage. The person behind me honked, and, without thinking, shouted “Shut the fuck up!” The driver got out of his car and went up to my window and said “Did you just tell me to shut the fuck up?” To which I replied, plainly, “No.” Taken aback and unsure how to respond, he walked back to his car and that was the end of the confrontation. The moral of the story is, it’s okay to gaslight someone if they’re an asshole and you’d rather not have to fight them.

What is your greatest regret?

Not investing in Amazon in 1997. But given that I was six years old at the time, I’ve forgiven myself for that one.

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When and where are you happiest?

I’ll split this into two parts — where I feel the most gratified and where I feel the most content. I feel the most gratified when I have a really strong idea for a piece of writing, and the vision is so clear in my mind that it virtually flows out of me. I feel the most content when I’m doing something utterly mundane with my wife and I look over and think to myself how pleasant it is to be able to do nothing with someone and enjoy it.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Definitely my book, Spoilers: Essays That Might Ruin Your Favorite Hollywood Movies. I realize I’m biased, but I think the book is incredibly funny and criminally underrated. I tend not to brag about my work enough, so there you go, I’m bragging about it. It’s a hilarious book and I think more people should read it.

If you could choose to come back as something, what would it be?

Other than having to shit in a sandbox, my cat has what I would consider to be pretty much the ideal life. 

What is your most treasured possession?

Not to say I consider my cat a “possession,” per se, but definitely my cat. 

Where would you like to live?

I would like to live in a racially diverse U.S. state with a socialist government, located in the South, in a city with great museums and cultural offerings, but that’s also affordable, and is within an hour’s drive of the Appalachian Mountains, but also an hour’s drive from the beaches of the Florida panhandle. Do you know of such a place?

What is your favorite occupation?

I love public defenders. I think they are doing the lord’s work.

What is your most marked characteristic?

Misinterpreting commonly asked questions.

What do you most value in your friends?

The trait I admire most in people, in general, but especially in my friends, is intellectual curiosity. I like surrounding myself with people who find the world as fascinating as I do and are game to explore and discuss it. I can’t imagine not being utterly fascinated by things.

Who are your favorite writers?

Samantha Irby, Fran Lebowitz, Simon Rich, and, if you count screenwriters as writers (which I do), Taika Waititi.

Who are your heroes in real life?

I think few people have ever exhibited as much kindness and grace as Fred Rogers. My professional goal is to be the Fred Rogers of satire. I realize that sentence makes absolutely no sense, but it makes sense in my head somehow.

How would you like to die?

Age 85+, peacefully holding hands with my wife as we both pass away simultaneously like that scene in The Notebook, except that we both have all of our mental faculties, and had the chance to say goodbye to all of our most cherished family and friends. Either that, or sex accident.

What is your motto?

If you don’t hire Carlos, it’s your Car-loss.

Thanks to for playing the game 👇

Shades of Greaves

A humor column from New Yorker and McSweeney's contributor Carlos Greaves

By Carlos Greaves

And as ever, merci Marcel.

Something momentous happened in my world this week: I have sent my manuscript to an editor. This will probably feel natural to some of you who have experienced this many times before, but for me, it’s a huge shock.

I never really used a script editor for my film projects—there was usually a producer, an exec, or a developmental producer—but I’ve never picked someone from a list on the internet to oversee something as important and time-consuming as a novel.

The sensation is head-spinning, like I’ve just left my young daughter with a stranger I met at a red light—even if that stranger looks sympathetic, competent (and expensive).

Many thoughts are currently spiraling in my head. The first is that I’m likely to need a full rewrite. Well, that’s what I’m expecting to hear from my editor anyway. The second is how sustainable this system is going to be in the long run, as it’s quite pricey. This makes me slightly question my plan to self-publish. It’s becoming such an investment in time and money that perhaps I should query at the end of the process?

All these questions are new to me, and it’s both exciting and a little scary. Funnily enough, I found out that my editor is on Substack only after hiring them. It didn’t occur to me to research this beforehand. I will spare them the pressure of seeing that I’m blogging about the process though. This will just be between you and me.

I just hope the process will be smooth and relatively painless. That even if a full rewrite is needed (likely), there will be enough concrete elements in the feedback so that I know where to start.

These insecurities are probably normal. It’s all going to be about navigating them and getting the best material out of the process. Anyway, for now, I have a couple of months to wait until I get the edit letter, so I need to learn patience.

I think this will be a good opportunity for me to take care of my Substack, which I’ll freely admit I have somewhat neglected over the past few months. I was so taken by the revision process, putting so many hours into the manuscript, that I had no energy left for blogging. This has led to losing a fair amount of paid subscribers—sorry, guys, that's my bad—but it has also made me reflect on substack and blogging in general.

It’s almost been a year since I joined Substack. Overall, the experience has been enjoyable and rather successful, but why did I have this slump in inspiration?

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I think it was more than just because of my novel. This feels like a crossroad of sorts. For my first year blogging, I was really quite regular and disciplined with the posting schedule. I would post almost every week, write notes almost daily, but when I reached my temporary goal of becoming a ‘bestseller’ on substack, I sort of felt like I needed a new level of motivation.

What is it all about? Is it about growing to as many subscribers as possible? Making money? Creating a newsletter as an author?

I’ve now had time to reflect on what I want from Substack in the future, and I’m done chasing growth targets and treating it like a second job. I’m truly grateful and still somewhat amazed at the support I’ve found on the platform, but moving forward, I want to do things wrong. I want my posts to be too long or too short, to have no structure but what instinctively flows through my fingers. I want to disregard all the techniques and schedules and just find something more essential. In other words, I want to spend less time analyzing and more time simply being myself in an intimate way.

It doesn’t mean I wasn’t sincere before, but I’d like to refocus on quality over quantity. That will be my challenge for year two on Substack. This means posting a bit less. Posting without structure or afterthought. Choosing not to do the ‘right things’ and seeing how it goes.

I’m sure it will slow my growth down, but my goal is to connect my inner self to you guys, not just to have more of you.

This starts today with this rambling. It doesn’t have much purpose other than to share the turmoil of emotions I’ve been through recently—my fears and my hope to write a good novel by the end of a process which terrifies me.

This is a key year for me, a crossroads. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy on these projects. I’d like to find a better balance between work and mental health moving forward, as it’s not been easy. I tend to lose myself in what I do, to be so extreme that it becomes overwhelming.

Moving forward, I yearn to trust the process better. To stop caring so much about what people think and to focus more on the folks that already care, rather than bringing in new ones.

It’s been a while. I’ve missed you guys, but I’m back. It will be a slightly different me. Maybe I’ll let more of my anxieties and insecurities show, and maybe I’ll keep losing subscribers in the process, but I hope it will bring this blog to even deeper areas of intimacy.

What about you, dear reader? Have you ever worked with an editor? Are you an editor? How was your first time? Did you ever feel substack burnout and find yourself at a crossroad? I would love to hear your thoughts on it.

Remy x

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I’m a big fan of Shalom’s writing—it’s striking, absurdly poignant, and sharp as a razor. I highly recommend checking out his Substack, where you can join him in the fetal position 👇

Shalom Auslander's Fetal Position

"Just to spite the world, don’t cry! Just to spite the world, only laugh, only laugh!" - Sholom Aleichem. Amen, Brother.

This interview was also an opportunity for me to read Feh, Shalom’s latest memoir, which you can grab via the link below. I loved it. It’s funny, moving, disarmingly honest, and, of course, if you’re a fan of Shalom Auslander’s writing, it’s a deep dive into his world.

Now, without further ado, I present you with ‘s Proust Questionnaire!

Shalom, what is your idea of perfect happiness?

I’m happy when I know my wife and children are happy. When they aren’t, I’m miserable. It’s like having three nerve endings out in the world, roaming around, unable to protect them but feeling everything they feel. 

Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Job. Except for the part where he gets rich at the end. Fingers crossed, though.

Which living person do you most admire?

To be honest, I admire just about everyone who gets through the day without pulling their hair out or hurting others along the way.. I often think that when people talk about God or sin. “Oh yeah, God? Why don’t you come down here and walk a mile in my shoes, see how far you get. I’ll hang out in Heaven, you spend a day in L.A.” We’re all saints.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

A terrible temptation towards seriousness, the result of a religious upbringing. It’s brutal, pointless and weak-minded. 

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Lack of self-awareness.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Running shoes. They cost a fortune, and I know we as humans have run perfectly well for millennia without them, but I fucking love them. Comfy.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Respect.

On what occasion do you lie?

Interviews.

What is your greatest regret?

How much I regret.

When and where are you happiest?

As above - when I know my wife and children are happy. I suppose that this being a writer interview I’m supposed to say writing or editing or seeing my book in print, and those are all great. But they’re solitary.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Leaving the suffocating world I was born into.

If you could choose to come back as something, what would it be?

I’m more worried about what I might be sent back as, given that God’s cruel and vindictive. A toilet? A plunger? That fawn on that nature program that gets mauled by that tiger? Or that tiger who mauls the fawn, thinks he’s got it made, and then gets mauled by that lion?

What is your most treasured possession?

I have an original Van Gogh. Bunch of sunflowers or something. Not a fan of yellow, really, but it brightens up the living room.

Where would you like to live?

I live in LA, so literally anywhere else.

What is your favorite occupation?

Sex.

What is your most marked characteristic?

Either my warped sense of humor or my enormous genitals.

What do you most value in your friends?

I lost two friends this year, so at the moment I would say, “Not being dead.”

Who are your favorite writers?

Kafka, Beckett, Montaigne, Vonnegut, Albee, O’Connor, Twain. Those names may sound pretentious, but I was fortunate to have dropped out of college after 4 weeks, so I never had a professor ruin them for me. I discovered them in bookstores, and just thought they were hilarious and wise. I thought Faulkner was a riot, same with Nabokov, Chesterton, Marquez. It wasn’t until later that I found out  they were deemed  “serious,” which is probably why nobody reads them anymore. I’m reading a great little book on Kafka at the moment, and the best translation yet - but he bends himself over backwards to avoid using the F word - funny.

Who are your heroes in real life?

I think having heroes is a very bad idea.

How would you like to die?

You would like to die?

What is your motto?

You have a motto? 

Thanks to for being game and taking the time.

And of course merci Marcel.

In this scene, Salieri, who has done everything he could to sabotage Mozart, explains his own central conflict: namely, that his pride pushes him to destroy Mozart, while his heart is in love with his music.

This conflict has always fascinated me. It led to some people calling this phenomenon ‘Salierism’. When someone just has enough talent to see true genius, but not enough to produce it himself—and suffers for this reason.

I’ve always thought this was such a subtle and powerfully human thing to explore, and I think the film really does it justice. In truth, I have never seen the play staged, so I can’t quite compare the film and the play. But the film has certainly got me to think a lot about human nature.

But let’s look at the scene itself.

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Analysis

It all starts after Mozart learns about his father’s death. Then Don Giovanni blasts, and we cut to this stern portrait of Mozart’s father. He is dead centre, boxed by the frame itself but also by the curtain. He almost looks like he is in a corridor somehow…

Very interestingly, the camera is handheld for this shot, reinforcing the sensation of watching from somebody’s POV. As if we were Mozart himself, writing Don Giovanni while staring at the painting.

Then we get this straight shot of the stage with all the performers. Notice how Mozart is present and gesticulating. This cleverly reinforces our connection with Mozart himself, it’s as if this shot was what he experiences during this concert, how he sees it.

After this we discover old Salieri, who is the voice-over throughout the entire film. Salieri is the real protagonist of the movie; he is the one through whom we discover Mozart most of the time. I love the little pale candles reflection in the generally bleak room around him. It almost feels like it is yearning itself, a struggling light in the darkness…

After a few more shots back and forth, and while Salieri makes the link between Don Giovanni and Mozart’s father, we have this shot: a classic low-angle, slightly dutch (tilted) composition of the fearful creature. Of course, this emphasizes its power over Mozart.

Once again, it feels like Mozart’s POV. Salieri is explaining to us what Mozart experiences, how he sees things.

We then see Mozart properly for the first time. This is an interesting shot. It’s taken with a very wide lens, and Mozart is again dead centre in a symmetrical composition.

The perspective almost gives this a slightly head-spinning feel; it looks like the room itself is bending. The chandeliers reinforce the sensation of Mozart being touched by grace, as if there were angels in the sky for him. The room is not packed, Salieri has already sabotaged Mozart who is not experiencing success anymore.

For the rest of the scene, we will often cut back to this shot and contrast it with Salieri’s.

This is the first time we see Salieri in the ‘now’ of the scene. In contrast to Mozart, Salieri is shot with a long lens that compresses the perspective. He looks imprisoned in this coffin-like lodge, alone, suffering.

To me, it really looks like Mozart is in paradise playing with angels, while Salieri observes him from hell. Notice the one single candle here, specifically placed in the bright opening of the curtain. It’s as if it is Salieri’s hope, almost gone already.

Now we see the stage again but at an angle, from inside the lodge, Salieri’s straight-up POV. The scene, therefore, starts splitting the POV between Salieri and Mozart.

For a while, things build up between the shots that we’ve seen. The music is going crescendo and we switch back and forth between the POVs of the two characters. They are seemingly the only two in the entire theatre to experience the music that profoundly.

Salieri explains his madness to the interviewer while the pace picks up.

The shots on stage almost feel like we are part of the cast. They show us how both protagonists experience the opera, fully absorbed in the story. It’s interesting how the dramaturgy is so strong at this point, that the simplicity of the directing doesn’t distract from the scene, but rather reinforces it.

The film is exploring man’s yearning for genius, and yet it doesn’t try to blow everyone away with some intense camera work or some clever ideas. Those are simple, well-composed shots that go straight to the gut rather than the brain.

During this sequence, Salieri literally states his desire to triumph over God, over his own mediocrity.

There is then a chaotic build-up with the music, the pacing of the edit really picks up, and that is reinforced by all the movements of the performers on stage.

I find it so striking how the shots from Mozart’s POV are always symmetrical and dead centre. It gives him a lot of power, making him truly otherworldly.

In contrast, we cut back to Salieri, bitterly jealous in his visual coffin. We are tighter, more uncomfortable, even his speck of light has disappeared and all that remains is his tormented soul.

Yet, despite everything, Mozart only receives lukewarm applause from the audience—something he owes to Salieri…

I really like this movie; it always struck me as wonderfully deep and well-executed. It also introduced me to classical music, which is a big part of me now.

This scene, in particular, encapsulates the profound emotional and psychological depth that Amadeus explores so well. The interplay between Salieri’s envy and admiration for Mozart’s genius is a powerful depiction of human complexity and vulnerability. Watching this film has not only given me a greater appreciation for classical music but also a deeper understanding of the human condition.

Whether you’re a long-time fan of the film or experiencing it for the first time, I hope my analysis has shed some light on its intricate beauty and inspired you to watch it with a fresh perspective.

Please don’t hesitate to point out some interesting film scenes in the comments—I’m always on the lookout for more cinematic gems to explore and discuss!

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I’ve acted professionally for around four years. During that time, there were two moments where I felt totally in possession of my audience. It only happened twice. Both occasions were in theatre plays.

In acting, the concept of ‘letting go’ is important, but as it turns out, it’s really hard to do. During those two fleeting moments, I remember letting go and experiencing the story as if I was in it—for real.

I didn’t just remember the text; it poured out of my mouth with perfect timing and intonation. The audience was captivated. It was like holding them in the palm of my hand. I remember the mad pleasure of being in control of the story and having everyone come along.

It was exhilarating, as if I could have done anything in the world, and it would have worked.

But then I tried to analyze those moments, to understand what had happened, what had triggered such brilliance, and unfortunately, I couldn’t reproduce it. You see, the thing with theatre is that you repeat the same scene hundreds of times. It’s not like film, where you rehearse right before a take and do maybe 4-5 takes in total.

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It was during this same period that I directed my first short film, in a completely autodidactic fashion. It was with my friends, and we knew nothing, yet the work was strong and allowed me into the film school of my dreams. There again, that same sensation of the perfect ‘first time’. This reflection on the artist discovering but then having to learn to discover again.

Finding the Zone in Writing

Thankfully, this was easier to do in film for me, especially with the writing, but thinking of all this got me thinking about fiction writing. About how acting techniques could help me get in that ‘zone’ where my writing takes on the same meaning, the same vivacity and sharpness as in those acting moments I experienced.

What if, as authors, we wanted to get ‘in character’ just like actors? Living the story, experiencing it. Maybe I should go for a hard run before writing a chase scene or induce neuroticism (as if that was necessary) by locking myself up for days before writing about alienation.

Or maybe I just need the same old office and some quiet.

Ultimately, whatever happened to me during those moments touched by grace, it wasn’t triggered by outward manipulation; it was purely a result of letting go, stopping caring what people thought, and going in. It was indirectly helped by skill and technique, but the trigger was still 100% psychological.

Letting Go

It’s what we all need to do at the end of the day, whether it sounds obvious or not. It’s not so hard to realize it but so very hard to put into action. In acting, I definitely never managed to find that letting-go moment again, no matter how hard I tried. Probably because of how hard I tried. With film, I think I found it. Now that I’m writing a novel…

The very fact that I’m thinking about it makes me feel like I might never encounter it. It’s one of those things, I suppose.

But I know that this moment of grace when it’s the first time can never be truly re-experienced in the same way again and needs to be re-learned. What matters is to get in the zone again, ever so slightly.

So today, more than anything, I want to remind myself to stop caring so much about the great game, and just. let. go.

How about you? Did you ever experience such moments of grace? Do you have any tips on how to provoke them?

Good feedback should take into consideration the context first of all. One cannot give feedback to a veteran of a hundred projects in the same way as to a brand-new, fragile artist. Similarly, there are stages in projects; one can’t simply give the same feedback on a just-released film or book as on something in development. Maybe that goes without saying, but how many times haveI seen—even educators in art school—start off after their very first viewing of a final piece, saying, "My question to you is, 'What is it about?'" There is a time and place for such questions, and if feedback is inappropriate for the current stage of your project, I say just utterly ignore it.

Also, be mindful of the ‘first viewing’ effect. Whenever you introduce a new person into a feedback loop, they will find something to criticise; otherwise, they risk appearing useless. I’ve rarely seen someone start out a feedback session and say, ‘All good, keep going.’

The wrong feedback at the wrong stage of a project can totally crush the vision and the confidence of the receiver. I’ve seen it happen many times over. The majority of people mean well, but not always. I’ve also seen groupthink or ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’ clique mentality, so beware of highly competitive environments.

Also, personally, I’m always very wary of the loudest and most charismatic person in the room; some folks like the sound of their own voice a lot.

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Another type of damaging feedback is when people try to rewrite your piece for you or completely disregard your style and vision. Being talented doesn’t mean being able to give feedback, let alone nurture someone else’s talent. It’s just not the same skill set, it requires psychology and the ability to listen. And, of course, ignoring feedback from people who simply don’t like you or your work is crucial.

I have seen it said on this platform that one should always listen to their editor, or trust their beta readers. I think going in with such an outlook can lead to confusion and a loss of confidence. You cannot indiscriminately listen to everyone; if putting as many talented people in a room as possible produced glorious outcomes, then there would be nicer shows on TV these days.

I think anything that questions the vision or goes against it should be ruthlessly dismissed. Anyone trying to trigger a reaction from you is playing power games and should be ignored with no emotion at all, and most importantly, anything that isn’t concrete and actionable should also be dismissed.

I basically feel that in 90% of cases, we are right about what we create. It’s only in the remaining 10% where we need to identify and solve issues in order to produce successful work.

Across all the films I’ve made, those that are, in general, the most successful tend to be the ones where I didn’t listen too much to external opinions and just followed my vision to the end. Those where I got confused in overdoses of feedback (film school) or worse had the vision questioned too many times early in the process produced the least successful results.

I’m not trying to draw conclusions from my own experience here; it’s more about using myself as an example to advocate for slightly more character and ego in creators and an end to people preying on others' insecurities and making themselves indispensable.

I wouldn’t advise anyone to always listen to their editor; I would rather they listen to the right feedback no matter where it comes from and feel strong enough to dismiss feedback that isn’t helping the vision.

It’s of course tempting to change something to please the right people (executives in film or agents/publishers in publishing), but if it goes against the vision, it should be ruthlessly discarded.

When starting a new project, I create a ball of confidence around the core idea, ensuring it's well-defined and reinforced. Later in the process, as feedback floods in, this core will be challenged. I build this emotional confidence over time and guard it fiercely against any attacks.

What about you? How do you deal with feedback and criticism in your process?

Age: As old as the first cover-up.

Appearance: A constant, nagging itch you can’t scratch.

Occurrence: Every time you think you’re in the clear.

Effect: Insomnia, avoidance, and the occasional panic attack.

Reason: Because you did something you knew was wrong.

Cause: Actions you’d rather forget, but can’t.

Does it matter? Like a fly buzzing inside your skull.

Treatment: Pretend it’s not there until it swallows you back.

Name: Regret

Age: As ancient as yesterday’s mistakes.

Appearance: A sigh in your morning coffee.

Occurrence: Whenever you have too much time to think.

Effect: A sinking feeling in your stomach.

Reason: Choices that seemed good at the time.

Cause: Hindsight, that annoying know-it-all.

Does it matter? Like a rock in a shoe—irritating but manageable.

Treatment: Distract yourself with more bad decisions.

Name: Shame

Age: As old as your first public embarrassment.

Appearance: A blush that won’t fade, no matter how hard you scrub.

Occurrence: When your failures come out at night.

Effect: Avoidance of eye contact and social events.

Reason: Because deep down you know.

Cause: Stupid mistakes amplified by an audience.

Does it matter? Like a stain on your favorite shirt.

Treatment: Hide it and hope everyone forgets.

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Name: Remorse

Age: As fresh as your latest fumble.

Appearance: Bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth.

Occurrence: After you realize how badly you’ve messed up.

Effect: A pit in your gut and a weight on your chest.

Reason: Because now it’s too late to fix it.

Cause: Poor decision making.

Does it matter? Like a heavy backpack you can’t take off.

Treatment: Do apologize, then brace for impact.

Name: Confession

Age: As frail and fragile as a newborn.

Appearance: A nervous twitch and a lot of stammering.

Occurrence: When you can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Effect: A brief relief followed by anxiety about the fallout.

Reason: Because carrying the secret is worse than spilling it.

Cause: Guilt that’s too heavy to bear alone

Does it matter? Like opening a can of worms.

Treatment: Blurt it out and deal with the consequences.

Name: Forgiveness

Age: As rare as a blue moon.

Appearance: A reluctant nod and a sigh.

Occurrence: When anger finally burns out.

Effect: A lighter load, but the scars remain.

Reason: Because life’s too short to hold a grudge.

Cause: Time, perspective, and maybe a little pity.

Does it matter? Like a band-aid on a deep cut.

Treatment: Accept it, but never forget.

Name: Redemption

Age: As old as the need for a second chance.

Appearance: A forced smile and an “I’m trying” attitude.

Occurrence: When you hit rock bottom and start to bounce.

Effect: Small victories, skeptical applause.

Reason: Because you’ve got nowhere to go but up.

Cause: A desperate need to prove you’re better than yourself.

Does it matter? Like a clean slate with a few smudges.

Treatment: One step forward, two steps back, repeat.

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Poser un lapin

Literal translation: To put down a rabbit.

Meaning: To stand someone up or not show up for a date or appointment.

Example: Instead of meeting Romeo for their planned date, Juliet decided to poser un lapin and stayed home to watch Netflix.

Origins: Originating in the late 18th century, the word "lapin" referred to someone who traveled without paying for the journey. Combined with "poser," it conveys the notion of not fulfilling an obligation or honoring a commitment.

La fleur au fusil.

Literal translation: Flower in the rifle.

Meaning: Naively enthusiastic and optimistic.

Example: “They thought it was a costume party, so they showed up in full medieval armor, la fleur au fusil.”

Origins: Originally, this expression depicted young WWI French soldiers in propaganda material, shown romantically going to war with a flower in their rifle.

The phrase took on its current, more ironic connotation after the harsh realities of brutal trench warfare settled.

ça ne fait pas avancer le schmilblick

Literal translation: This doesn’t move the schmilblick forward.

Meaning: This doesn’t solve the issue at all.

Example: “The prime minister’s intervention didn’t move the schmilblick forward in the slightest.”

Origins: Originally from Pierre Dac, a humorist in France in the 1950s, the word schmilblick is not, despite the appearance, from German. It’s a purely made-up word that can be used as a synonym for ‘truc, bidule, machin’—basically, a ‘thingie’. It was later popularized via a TV game called ‘Le Schmilblic,’ where contestants had to guess an object. My mum uses this expression all the time.

Être médusé

Literal translation: To be medused.

Meaning: To be absolutely stunned, dazed, petrified.

Example: "When Dad ate the last piece of chocolate, the toddler looked on, médusé."

Origins: From the Greek Goddess Medusa, whose appearance was so hideous that she could petrify people. I just love how visual this is :)

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Tenir la chandelle

Literal translation: To hold the candle.

Meaning: To be the third wheel / to play gooseberry

Example: “This was supposed to be a love triangle, but I’m just ending up tenir la chandelle!”

Origins: Imagine yourself in the 19th century, caught up in what you think is a vivid love triangle. But, remember, there's no electricity… So candles are essential for lighting—and someone has to hold them. Ironically, that person, like a third wheel, ends up just illuminating others' romantic scenes without being part of them.

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Y avoir anguille sous roche

Literal translation: There’s an eel under the rock.

Meaning: There’s something fishy going on; something suspicious.

Example: “I’m starting to worry about that new crypto I spent all my savings on… Do you think there could be anguille sous roche…?”

Origins: Origin unknown, but there is definitely wisdom in not stepping on an eel.

Y a baleine sous gravillon

Literal translation: There’s a whale under the gravel.

Meaning: There’s something really fishy going on; something meant to be secret but laughably obvious.

Example: “It’s not an anguille sous roche anymore, at this stage it’s a baleine sous gravillon.”

Origins: This is a common play on the other expression found below. It’s a direct reference with a comical undertone.

I hope you enjoyed this batch. Sometimes I wonder what I’m going to do with my life once I exhaust all bizarre French expression. Maybe I’ll resume my learning of Latin? (yes we learn Latin or Ancient Greek in high school in France)

Cheers x

I check the time: one hour left.

One after another, proud children hop onto the stage and provide a toe-curling display. What demonic ritual is this? Why have they invited us? Aren’t they supposed to teach them how to actually play?

Soon it’s my own tender daughter who steps in, proudly plucking four notes on her baby violin. I applaud wildly, smiling and waving. She is chuffed, but all I can think about is how fucked up our world is.

Are we delusional to expect reasonable human beings while we, adults, lie to our children constantly?

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I propose to change this. We shouldn’t fall prey to our love of our little ones; we ought to tell them the truth from now on. Tell them that yes, we will die and putrefy at one point or another, that yes, their little piece of music was shite, and they have to work real hard to get better, and that no, mum and dad are not wise, they are just TIRED.

But I’m a coward, I can’t.

As the concert draws to a close, I approach the music teacher and thank her wholeheartedly, feeling dirty in the process. I do hope my handshake doesn’t betray my loathing. I know I’m overreacting, but it’s one of those things.

I am still tempted to make a stand, to put my foot down, to jump on stage and utter a primal scream, before explaining that the world as it’s made is unacceptable, that we ought to change it, change things, that we can’t carry on like this! But I lack courage, I just go with the flow. I’m like everybody else.

As we are making our way home, I’m carrying my girl’s violin on my back and wondering why I always think of things like these in such moments. My daughter carries a flower bouquet and smells it, it’s nice and sunny, the birds are singing, and I’m thinking of Caligula.

Back home I listen to Bach for an hour to cleanse myself and I start feeling much better. Then, as always, I accept with bitterness the great hypocrisy of life.

Maybe I should let her struggle, let her see the raw edges of this world, but then again, maybe I should just let her be a child. There’s a peculiar comfort in the discordant notes of childhood. A place where innocence doesn’t yet know the sting of truth.

Perhaps there’s a lesson there too, one I’m still trying to learn.

R x

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A New Path for Me

As some of you may know, for the past two years, I have been learning how to write novels. I’m not new to writing, nor to storytelling, since I have been a writer/director for years, but I had never tried my hand at novel form before. I needed a long crash course.

I consider the first two manuscripts that I wrote during that time to be learning exercises only. But as I start my third draft and feel (a bit) more knowledgeable about the process, the question of my goals and, more specifically, how I would release the book invariably comes up.

Traditional Publishing?

Of course, I’m tempted to go the traditional way and roll the dice with agents and glory. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a ‘real’ author and have a status badge confirming it? For sure it would help my mum to see that I was right to choose art rather than law. (I tried with the Substack bestseller badge, but that didn’t cut it.)

It would also feel sweet to have people looking up to me like some kind of reference because the industry has made me a chosen one. It’s clear from the publishing industry that the only truly respected authors are the ones who go through that gauntlet of selection. For the rest, there remains a huge stigma.

One of the assumptions, I am guessing, is that someone who self-publishes must have failed to get an agent and a book deal. That their book wasn’t good enough to really ‘make it’ and therefore was only self-published. Self-publishing is seen by many as a scourge, a blob of bad books diluting the good ones in a formless mass. Reviewers will refuse to review, literary prizes will refuse to consider, and so on and so forth.

The Difference with Film

I’m coming from film, a place where independent filmmakers are not frowned upon like in publishing; for me the question of self vs trad publishing is a genuine one.

For the past ten years, I've applied to countless funding opportunities and festivals—a process not so different from querying agents. While I haven't done it directly in publishing, I have plenty of experience with the ups and downs of pitching projects. I've been part of the lucky few to get selected several times, but I've also faced my fair share of rejections.

The one thing I have learned during these years is that the moons need to align for a project to get greenlit. It’s partly because of the quality of the script, sure, but not just. You need to take into consideration the slate of projects that the structure has in parallel, and the profile of the filmmaker as well.

There are also fashion and trends, momentum, and like I said, these days, there is a quest for the story of the author himself, his or her identity, what it means in the grand scheme of things.

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Substack

One thing that has really changed my perspective is blogging. Before Substack, I didn’t really have a social media account. I was that guy writing like a monk and sending out my projects only to the best possible opportunities around.

I had very little interaction with people, let alone my audience. It was really something that I didn’t know I missed, but publishing on Substack, or should I say self-publishing on Substack, has really opened my eyes.

It has made up for the loneliness of the writing existence and got me to realize that my main motivation in publishing is to find a readership, just like it is on Substack to connect with people.

Of course, I have nothing against trad publishing. I’d love to get a book deal, an agent, like everyone else, but I will not be going this way. At least not at first.

My Goals

This whole process has got me to reflect a lot about my own ego, whether with film or now with my novel. It’s really hard to completely be freed of ego, but hey, at least I’m trying. With my novel, I’ve decided to approach it gently, like an artisan baker preparing his bread.

I’m not trying to impress people, or to be massive, I just want to write a good book that will find its way into people’s hands.

I also want to make a living off writing. That’s, I think, important, as I write a lot, but right now I’m making the majority of my money from directing and producing.

In that context, chasing a book deal for years, just to be able to comfort myself that I’m finally a real writer, is of no help.

My goal is to not get slowed down by the gatekeepers. Just like I’m doing on Substack, I want to keep hitting that publish button. It will not only get my work out there, but also make me a better writer in the long run.

Funnily enough, as I’m writing this, I’ve been working for two years on the same manuscript… So I guess I’m not exactly slamming that publish button quite yet!

A Positive Choice

I really want to see if I can reproduce in publishing what I created on Substack, and develop my own community of readers. I like the idea that the only gatekeeper is the actual reader (and of course the quality of the book).

There is a sense of control, of making my own wins and fails, that I really crave, coming from a world where control is scarce.

In a way, I wish film had a self-publishing form, as it would make me so much happier, but film requires too much money and too many people involved to truly consider anything truly self-made.

At the end of the day, I see self-publishing as a positive, self-affirming act, rather than a failure, but of course it will be interesting to see the reactions around me. Thankfully, my main activity is still filmmaking, so it’s much easier for me to park my ego with the novels.

This article is, by the way, not to say that people chasing their dreams and a publishing deal are wrong, or misguided. I think they are eminently right and if they succeed, it will be very rewarding for sure. But I like the idea of being a crafter, an artisan, rather than seeing myself as an artist with a big A.

That’s, by the way, why I’m choosing to write genre novels. My book will be a sci-fi thriller with a slight touch of the literary. I also think that for anything in the literary genre, self-publishing is probably not the right choice as it would be hard to sell, but for genre fiction, I believe there is an audience.

I also think that success in this field could lead to opportunities with agents and the like, but that I’m not sure about. I don’t know the industry enough. It would seem foolish to me for an agent to pass on someone already with a readership just for the stigma, but what do I know?

I’m really interested in hearing everyone’s perspective on this contentious topic. I know that the main complaint about self-publishing is that there is a mass of bad books, poorly written, badly edited, with dreadful covers, and for sure this is the case. Any random person can publish these days. But so is the case for film. There are plenty of bad independent films and yet some of them are absolute gems and will make it into big festivals.

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The Stigma

I wish the stigma wasn’t so strong, but I assume that the sheer existence of self-publishing threatens the gatekeeping ecosystem, so it should come as no surprise that it tries to reject it.

If I hadn’t discovered Substack and experienced what it feels like to have a community, I don’t think I would have considered self-publishing, because of that stigma. But blogging has changed everything.

Personally, I think the future is in hybrid publishing. Just like in film, nothing should stop an author from releasing a book with a traditional publisher (a studio movie) or doing a personal project (an indie film).

I think the stigma on reviews and literary prizes is simply ridiculous. It reminds me of Cannes not wanting to screen films made by Netflix as a matter of principle. How calcified a thinking is that?

What do you think?

I would love to hear your thoughts , whether you have experienced either (or both?) of these paths. Please share in the comments!

R x

I do hope people will check out your stories, as they are distinctive and effortless. Posting fiction on Substack is definitely not the easiest path, but I think for you, it’s not really a choice, it’s a need.

You also happen to be one of the first people I connected with on the Stack; plus, you helped me uncover my very own Porn Name Pseudonym ‘Olympe d’Italie,’ for which, of course, I’ll be eternally grateful.

Anyway, it’s my great pleasure to have you today to share your Proust Questionnaire.

Please everyone, after reading, go and check out Clancy’s work:

Porn Name Pseudonym

Modern literary fiction. Bildungsromans, generational conflict, dark humor and local color. Occasional essays on culture.

By Clancy Steadwell

And now without further ado…

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Perfect happiness is knowing that no matter what happens in my life or in the world, the little flame inside me will keep burning anyway.

Sometimes it’s hard to know that.

But if I could be within that knowingness, always, without fear – that is perfect happiness.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Stanislav Petrov. In 1983 he was serving as a duty officer at the command center for the Soviet’s nuclear early-warning system, which was designed to detect incoming missile attacks from the United States. There was an alert he was supposed to escalate to his superiors who would then decide on launching a retaliatory strike, probably ending the world as we know it. Instead, he determined it to be a false alarm.

He was later commended for his judgement in essentially saving the world, but I think he was just doing what most of us would have done.

No matter which country I was serving, I would classify every incoming attack as a false alarm. Let’s just destroy half the world, and we’ll figure out the politics later. I’m not going to be responsible for ending the whole thing.

Which living person do you most admire?

Tom Catena. Look him up, the guy is a living saint.

He could have been a top surgeon at home in America or otherwise had some kind of extremely lucrative profession due to his intelligence and Ivy League education, yet he chooses to spend his time performing surgeries from dawn to dusk in Sudan, on call 24/7, in constant danger, the only surgeon for an area of almost a million people, and training those people to someday operate a hospital themselves.

A selfless life.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

My ability to deplore myself. It would be too simplistic to say I am a perfectionist because I am certain that perfection is not possible, but I contain within me a magnificent ability to criticize myself at every turn, to find the negatives to be improved on, to dwell on past mistakes for fear of never learning from them. I can smell my own mediocrity a mile away.

With good health, self-care, and medicine, I can remove this trait in myself for most aspects of life, most of the time, but not always, and not for all aspects.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

A lack of gratitude.

People are so corrupted by mimetic desire and the consumerist pressures of our society that they constantly want, strive, desire, for what they don’t have and what others do. They think ‘once I have x I will be happy’ or ‘if only I had y things would be ok’ but don’t realize the key to achieving x and y is to be grateful and embrace the things you already have.

What is your greatest extravagance?

Time is our most valuable commodity in life, and I spend too much of mine on the unadulterated watching of countless football (soccer) matches.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Outgoingness, extraversion, and the corresponding ability to ‘network’ and ‘make friends.’

It is an excellent virtue in and of itself, but too often it is a smokescreen with which to conceal vapidity in other areas, and thus, overrated.

On what occasion do you lie?

I lie to myself, mostly, usually about writing.

“This sentence is fine.”

“It doesn’t have to have a perfect ending!”

“You’re a brilliant writer! Post it anyway!”

Stuff like that.

What is your greatest regret?

I wish I enjoyed my teenage years more.

A lot of my writing lives vicariously through young characters, especially high schoolers. I spent most of those years being anxious about nearly everything, without realizing that they were the best of my life, that everything was wild and exciting and new, life could take any course. How little I had to worry about, small the responsibilities I had.

When I was a teen, I felt scared and cloistered, as though every danger in the world threatened to cut my life short, that if I didn't protect myself then I'd be missing out on all the great things my future life had to offer.

Instead, I missed out on youth.

When and where are you happiest?

During the daytime, in the most direct sunlight. Literally.

I have some kind of physiological aversion to happiness when I am lacking sunlight, or perhaps it corresponds with barometric pressure or some other environmental effects yet undiscovered.

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What do you consider your greatest achievement?

My life in its current state and how I got there. I have led a life relatively free of trauma and hardship, yet fraught with its own perils and turmoil that constituted hurdles along the way.

Every addiction I’ve escaped, people I’ve met, friends I’ve made, the temptations and the loves I’ve left have all made the life I have now a spectacular achievement indeed.

If you could choose to come back as something, what would it be?

At risk of sounding unoriginal here, probably a mammalian pet of some sort, preferably in a comfortable upper-middle class home of benevolent owners in a developed country.

Those sorts of people have the luxury of treating pets like royalty and I would be able to enjoy a comfortable life without guilt (I would be just an innocent animal, after all).

What is your most treasured possession?

My acoustic guitar. It is a $100 piece of junk that I have been meaning to discard for years, but I can never get myself to indulge in an upgrade. Despite many opportunities for replacement, I persist with it anyway. I’ve had it for ten years.

The longer I resist buying a new one, the more a symbol of self-restraint it becomes, and thus more treasured.

Where would you like to live?

As aforementioned, I need to be in the sun. Someplace nearer the equator with more static, tropical seasons.

Humanity’s greatest mistake was migrating from such areas early on.

Ideally, I would live on an island with soft, sandy beaches, and little risk of tropical storms and/or hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, or other natural disaster phenomenon.

I’d live in a well-cooled bungalow in an area with various roads ideal for road-running, well-manicured fields for satisfying the vibrant local soccer-playing community, and dive bars that feature local musicians. I’d be walking distance to a few good brunch and coffee places run by locals, lunch and dinner places as well, some specializing in the local seafood, perhaps a market as well.

There’d be no tourists, it’d be just me and my island friends.

Fortunately, I do not currently live in such an area (I suspect it does not exist) and am bound by family and friends to stay in a part of the world with four very strong and distinct seasons and none of the other things mentioned, which I am glad to find humbles me. A perpetually happy me might be kind of dangerous.

What is your favorite occupation?

My favorite job was being a supermarket store clerk – specifically, the one tasked with gathering carts from the parking lot.

You get to walk around outside and daydream a lot, which is all I really need and desire to do anyway. It doesn’t take too much focus and is virtually impossible to mess up as long as you keep a steady pace.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My propensity for daydreaming. It can take nothing to distract me, and everything to take me back to the moment.

At any moment I am liable to stare off in the distance and murmur something to myself, and those who love me and are constantly near to me will know I am gone.

What do you most value in your friends?

I would like to say something more substantive like ‘loyalty’ or ‘intelligence’, but honestly, I most value humor. If you can’t laugh with someone, you can’t be friends. I’ve known many people whom on the surface I would appear not to get along with, innumerable differences between us in politics, intellect, interest, taste.

But if we can laugh together, we can be friends.

Who are your favorite writers?

My favorite writers are mostly white men from the classic modern or near-modern pantheon of Western authors, and while they are my favorites, I don’t consider them essential reading for everyone, nor would I recommend them to most people. But they served to inform me and so here they are:

Karl Ove Knausgaard

Raymond Carver

Earnest Hemingway

James Joyce

David Foster Wallace

Chuck Klosterman

Main exceptions to the white dude classification are Haruki Murakami, Ruth Ozeki, and especially Elena Ferrante, who might be one of my top three favorites.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Main one is probably my Significant Other. As you can probably tell from my answers to this questionnaire, they have a lot to deal with, and they do it marvelously.

Also, my siblings. They excel in areas which I do not despite being subject to many of the same foibles and failings.

How would you like to die?

I’m in the sun, on an Adirondack chair on a promontory or dock thrust out upon the waters of a sparkling lake, cold drink in hand, dog by my feet, surrounded by the smiles of loved ones and descendants.

Ideally, we all know I’m going to die.

And that’s just fine with everyone.

What is your motto?

Be a monk of your own religion. 

Thanks to for being game, don’t forget to check him out here!

Porn Name Pseudonym

Modern literary fiction. Bildungsromans, generational conflict, dark humor and local color. Occasional essays on culture.

By Clancy Steadwell

And of course…

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Age: Evergreen, unceasing.

Appearance: Eyes that linger too long on another’s fortune.

Occurrence: When success feels like a scarcity.

Effect: A flat beer, a clenched jaw.

Reason: The illusion that there’s not enough to go around.

Cause: A yearning for what others possess.

Does it matter? Like a silent, creeping vine.

Treatment: Gratitude, a shift in perspective (and perhaps a bit of wine).

Name: Insecurity.

Age: Eternally reborn.

Appearance: A frown in the mirror, a second guess.

Occurrence: When the mind needs a rest.

Effect: Self-doubt, a rock in the belly.

Reason: Fear of judgment, fear of inadequacy.

Cause: The whispers of past failures.

Does it matter? Like an anchor in the sea.

Treatment: Acceptance, a kind word to oneself.

Name: Comparison.

Age: As old as society.

Appearance: Measuring sticks, invisible lines.

Occurrence: In social gatherings, in the scroll of a feed.

Effect: Tunnel vision, a restless heart.

Reason: The urge to fit in, to measure up.

Cause: Societal pressures, the race to the top.

Does it matter? Like a never-ending run.

Treatment: Mindfulness, celebrating your own path.

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Name: Self-Acceptance.

Age: Old and wise.

Appearance: A serene smile, a confident stance.

Occurrence: When the noise quiets, in the stillness of the night.

Effect: Inner peace, a lightness of being.

Reason: The quest for true contentment.

Cause: Embracing flaws, celebrating strengths.

Does it matter? Like finding home within yourself.

Treatment: Remembering that it’s all a big game

Name: Personal Growth.

Age: In every small, truthful word.

Appearance: A tree reaching towards the sun.

Occurrence: In every challenge, in every triumph.

Effect: Strength, resilience, wisdom.

Reason: The innate desire to evolve, to improve.

Cause: Life’s lessons, the passage of time.

Does it matter? Like the pages of a book.

Treatment: Continuous learning, a passion for something (even if it’s just collecting funny socks).

Name: Wisdom.

Age: As venerable as a mountain.

Appearance: A knowing smile, eyes that have seen much.

Occurrence: Through the trials, in moments of reflection.

Effect: Clarity, depth of understanding.

Reason: The culmination of experiences, the gift of time.

Cause: Life lived fully, lessons learned.

Does it matter? Like the guiding light in darkness.

Treatment: Sharing stories, embracing each chapter.

Name: Peace.

Age: As ancient as the stars.

Appearance: A mysterious lake, a quiet mind.

Occurrence: In the stillness, in the eye of the storm.

Effect: Serenity, a gentle sigh.

Reason: The pursuit of balance, of inner calm.

Cause: Letting go, acceptance.

Does it matter? Like the first breath of spring.

Treatment: Making peace with death itself and enjoying the ride.

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By the way, I would love nothing more than to hear you attempt to pronounce these with your US/UK accents, so if you’re game, record yourself and post it as an answer to my note!

Now without further ado…

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Dormir sur ses deux oreilles

Literal translation: To sleep on one’s two ears.

Meaning: To sleep like a log.

Example: “After beheading all the traitors, the king could finally sleep sur ses deux oreilles.”

Origins: Unknown. Some say it’s in opposition to ‘Ne dormir que d’un oeil,’ which means to sleep really lightly. It’s, of course, very odd, as unless one has a U-shaped pillow, or is an alien, it’s quite impossible to achieve.

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Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Avoir le cul entre deux chaises

Literal translation: To have one’s arse between two chairs.

Meaning: To be pulled between two situations.

Example: “Max was torn between his desire to get the job, and the profound impulse to punch the interviewer. Max has le cul entre deux chaises.”

Origins: Fairly recent, quite familiar language. You will hear this in books or films, but never in the news for instance.

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Taper l’incruste.

Literal translation: To hit the embedding.

Meaning: To turn up where you’re not invited.

Example: Like a relentless pop-up ad, Jerry managed to taper l’incruste at yet another barbecue.

Origins: This is current French slang, probably a few decades old.

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Mal dans sa peau.

Literal translation: bad in one's skin

Meaning: Insecure, depressed.

Example: I don’t know how to help him, he is so mal dans sa peau…

Origins: I’ve always found this expression extremely touching, visual and poetic. I love the way it conveys that vague sense of unease one can feel when depression hits.

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Vieille branche.

Literal translation: Old branch.

Meaning: Old pal.

Example: “Long time no see vieille branche!”

Origins: Originating in the 19th century, 'vieille branche' evolved from 'poteau' and 'pote,' terms for a loyal friend—a nod to a sturdy trunk. Like the trunk, the branch serves as a metaphor for enduring reliability.

Bizarre French Expression of the Day

Coûter la peau du cul.

Literal translation: To cost the arse’s skin.

Meaning: To cost an arm and a leg.

Example: “Have you seen Rosamund wedding gift list?! Everything cost la peau du cul!”

Origins: I think we can all agree that the area of skin that protects our arses is priceless, so it’s fairly straightforward to understand.

I hope you enjoyed this batch, I had some fun putting it together and imagining your pronouncing some of these to some most impressed French acquaintance.

If you liked it, let me know in the comments, if you absolutely hated it, also let me know in the comments, as it will help the post to trend.

Cheers! x

Age: As ancient as desire.

Appearance: A whiff of temptation in every celebration.

Occurrence: When comfort becomes a crutch.

Effect: A thick fog in the mornings.

Reason: The quest for an escape, the fear of death.

Cause: A pained mask of joy; a cloak of anger.

Does it matter? Like a missing limb

Treatment: Hitting rock bottom and pushing back up.

Name: Relapse.

Age: As recurrent as the moon’s phases.

Appearance: A hard habit, a familiar smell.

Occurrence: Just when the battle seemed won.

Effect: All loathing, a test of resolve.

Reason: Soul chemistry, the body's old battles.

Cause: A heart skipping beats, a rare encounter.

Does it matter? Like a rallying cry ringing through the night.

Treatment: Renewed commitment, a cup of strong coffee.

Name: Recovery.

Age: Timeless, for as long as there are humans.

Appearance: A slow sunrise, a gradual unveiling.

Occurrence: After the sweatiest nights, under the heaviest burdens.

Effect: Lightness, a breath of fresh air.

Reason: The innate urge to mend, to rise another time.

Cause: Driven by love, loss, and survival.

Does it matter? It’s the essence of every great comeback.

Treatment: Steady patience, perseverance, and long walks in nature.

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Name: Sobriety.

Age: As steady as a monk’s chant.

Appearance: Clear eyes, steady hands.

Occurrence: Each day anew, a continuous choice.

Effect: Clarity, presence, the murmur of old dreams.

Reason: The quest for purity, for control, for peace.

Cause: A strong discipline, life’s earnest plea.

Does it matter? More than most will ever realize.

Treatment: Commitment, constant vigilance, and a slice of humble pie.

Name: Temptation.

Age: As old as the garden of Eden.

Appearance: Artificial paradises, seducing with sweet lies.

Occurrence: At every corner, in every joyous toast.

Effect: A stirring within, a falter in resolve.

Reason: Humanity’s eternal waltz with lust.

Cause: The allure and romance of existence.

Does it matter? Only in that one heartbeat.

Treatment: A strong will, a reminder of the stakes.

Name: Triumph.

Age: As glorious as a hero’s welcome.

Appearance: A milestone celebrated, a scar worn with pride.

Occurrence: After endless days, through all resistance.

Effect: A calm bubble dancing through turbulent waters.

Cause: The cumulative result of countless decisions.

Does it matter? Like dawn after the ink of never-ending nights.

Treatment: Revel in it, then share the tale to inspire.

Name: Enlightenment.

Age: As wise as an ancient tree.

Appearance: The calm after the storm, the depth in sober eyes.

Occurrence: A glimmer of profound clarity.

Effect: Understanding oneself, the path laid bare.

Cause: The journey through shadows, the quest for light.

Does it matter? It’s the one guidepost.

Treatment: Relax, reflect, and continue to grow.

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For some reason, likely due to my tendency to over-analyze, I often reflect on the fine line between perseverance, strength of will, and sheer unproductive clenching in any human endeavor. This is not just true for my writing projects but extends to love stories, ideals, career…

Perseverance

This reflection is particularly relevant in our societies, where the idea of doggedness, of not giving up, is praised. People like to describe themselves as stubborn, resilient: they will never let go of something when they set their minds to it. Literature around this abounds, just like the many gurus and motivational coaches. Never give up! If you want it, everything is possible!

Well, I posit that this is the wrong approach because it leads to clenching—not just local clenching, when a project blocks, but ideal clenching, when an entire side of someone’s life blocks or regresses.

It’s easy to get so absorbed into one thing that we forget a sidestep is possible. I, for instance, see many authors smash themselves against the wall of rejection from the publishing world and get destroyed by it, instead of taking a sidestep and self-publishing. From their perspective, it probably seems like they have no other options, but for an outsider to their industry, it’s difficult to understand. Especially these days.

But often, it’s hard to notice the clenching when it’s there as it sets in slowly.

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My Example

To illustrate the pitfalls of this mindset, let me share my own experience where perseverance blurred into clenching. A couple of years ago, way before I started on Substack, I set myself to write an easy-to-read novel in the sci-fi/fantasy genre, and self-publish it under a pseudonym.

This project was designed as the ‘relaxed’ one amongst all my project, something anonymous, an experiment for fun, something I didn’t put pressure on myself about. But of course, try to get rid of the natural and it comes back running… It’s now been two years, I’ve gone through an incalculable number of structures and rewrites. I wrote two full manuscripts and always wanted to rewrite them from scratch the minute I finished.

Right now, I feel like I’m at a crossroads with that project, teetering on the edge between perseverance and clenching. My wife says that I should just publish it and be done with it, while I just keep going out of sheer perfectionism and a matter of principle, slowly suffocating all my joy of it.

Clenching

This ongoing struggle with my novel serves as a clear example of what I define as 'clenching'—a state where persistence ceases to be productive. I don’t mean clenching as in whether I should drop the entire project. I mean more that my relationship to it is not sane currently. It’s not constructive anymore; my ego is far too involved.

This state of things leads to a more strained writing process and therefore to a more conflicted stream of inspiration, and things can quickly unravel from there. Sadly, at the moment, I’m rather at a block on this specific project, but that’s really a question for another post.

But is there a way to control it? I mean, the ability to clench and let go, the positioning on the chessboard of inspiration? Is there a way to create the conditions where inspiration can flow unrestrained again, like the thoughts of a child? Perhaps thinking about it is the first of the steps not to take, as it’s a controlling approach. Then what? Sit back and contemplate the clouds fly by while waiting for inspiration? That’s also way too dangerous a behavior and often leads to regretted years.

“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” — Pablo Picasso

How I wish I had the answer. This reminds me of some moments of pure bliss in my past where the moons aligned and somehow a project got blessed with that perfect blend of letting go, amusement, intensity, and everything got together nicely.

I’m convinced that the answer is not in a complete let go, as when I tried this, it led to more negative feelings than good. Maybe I have some kind of workaholism, because if I don’t write every day, I feel unwell. It’s like a weird need, mixed with slight addiction. When it’s absent, it feels as though meaning itself has escaped the hours... But when I’m reaching clenching-point on a project, those hours spent writing are not enjoyable anymore.

I don’t always enjoy writing

There I said it. Writing is not 100% always enjoyable to me. Last I mentioned something like that in a note, I got some surprised comments, as if it was a given that because it’s fiction and therefore a passion, it should be enjoyed at all times.

Well, I for once will be honest when I say that while I enjoy it most of the time, there is a minority of the time where I utterly loathe writing, my computer, the keyboard, the words. It’s in these clenching moments when I feel it’s not inspiration I lack per se, but the open, airy amusement required for good writing.

The right balance

So how can one deal with striking this balance? My main approach is to try to have many projects and simply let go of one for a bit. This usually works fine, but there are, I would say, turbulent periods where the clenching becomes like a mini writing burnout and where nothing good can come out of my brain.

In such case, I’m not sure what to do. I’m left with two poor options: first to not write for a bit and let it go which makes me feel bad. The second to write despite the clenching and loathing, simply turning up for the day like I would at any job. I often prefer the second option, as it keeps me in a rhythm, but really I’m struggling to see another option right now.

As a side note and before anyone leaves me a comment telling me to stop being so self absorbed, or to go volunteer my time at some charity: I’d like to point that I’m quite an obsessive person, I take treatment to handle it and see a psychiatrist to get better. So, perhaps, I hope, the process is not as tormented for other writers—in fact, I’d love to know how it’s like for you.

As if it was the first time

So, how to reconcile getting up every day to write with never clenching? This is the question and I wish I fully had the answer.

I believe that’s why I decided to share this essay: more often than not, sharing here helps unblock things in the engine room of my brain, so hopefully, that continues.

To be fair, I think that despite the appearance, being aware of things is always a good thing. It’s great to be a somnambulist walking a tightrope for the first time and experiencing bliss, but if you do it every single day of your life, at some point you think about the rope, you think that you’re thinking about the rope, etc.

When I was an actor, this was crucially important by the way. The best actors weren’t the guys with the most fascinating personalities or brilliance. They were the guys who could unplug their brain and rediscover things as if it was the very first time.

Well, I’d like to rediscover writing every day, as if it was my very first time. I want to learn to walk the tightrope while thinking about the rope, and without it leading to a painful fall. And most importantly, I want to learn to identify and cut short any clenching and free myself from the taxing idea of misplaced perseverance.

In the meantime, I will keep turning up at the writing table, no matter what—perhaps a minor victory in itself, and focus on sheltering away the thought that writing should always be enjoyed. I will also of course keep seeking help with a mental health professional to strike the right balance in my obsessive compulsiveness and see where that leads.

A therapeutic process

It’s curious how my journey in blogging has become a gateway to revealing who I am. Those of you reading these lines might now understand me better than some people I’ve known for years. Yet, each time I'm about to publish a personal piece like this, I am struck by a peculiar thrill—a mix of fear and exhilaration.

To me, the act of creating is fundamentally an inside-out process, a method to confront and manage my tendency to shut out reality. When I write a film script or a blog post, I choose a personal challenge—a weakness, an anxiety—and use it as the core theme to navigate and hopefully, to cathartize throughout the narrative. Each article becomes a small battle against the enormity of my self-absorption, a step towards not losing myself completely.

Sharing these personal insights does not come easily; it feels exposing, leaving me vulnerable. Yet, this exposure is therapeutic, part of my ongoing struggle with issues like clenching. Currently, I recognize the clenching in my latest project, where I often find myself spinning my wheels rather than making progress.

By opening up about these genuine anxieties, I hope to not only alleviate them but also to encourage you, the reader, to reflect on your own creative or personal challenges.

How do you handle the pressures of your passions? Does sharing your struggles in any form help you move forward?

Remy x

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