It was such a joy to participate once more in the Spring Thing, and a pleasure to be among this wonderful cohort of authors and their entertaining entries. I am humbled by all the kind words I have received for my silly little piece, they meant the world to me.
Thank you for indulging me in this regard.
Hey S.T.
Going through my archive, I found this letter from Doctor Jeangille. It is much longer than I anticipated, and am glad I only found it now. Its content is… well…
I think you might find it informative, if not, at the very least, a tad –
No, let’s be honest, she is being much too dramatic for her own good. It is probably more entertaining than informative. Good thing we “lost” that one…-M.
Le 18 it was always nonsense.
Ma dulcinée, mon trésor, mon Olympia
You must be wondering why I am writing you so, when we are to be reunited in but a few hours. It is that I must promptly share with you some news and could not wait another moment, wait until I could be freed from this walls, wait until these Sisyphean tasks were dealt with. Please receive this missive with all my deepest feelings.
And regrets… so many regrets…
You will think me a coward for writing these words, too afraid of uttering them, too ashamed of seeing your disappointed face when I admit my shortcomings, too guilty of disregarding your advice. But I cannot bear seeing your kind eyes look away in disgust; it is much too hard to say these words, harder than you will ever know.
For another of my failures has landed on my desk…
My love, it is with a broken heart that I share with you this crushing defeat, this catastrophic response, this morale-breaking answer. You must surely remember our discussions these past few months about this recent project, for which I have pour not just blood, sweat, and tears, but all my soul.
And for what…
Not just one, but TWO Congrès have now passed over this project. I --…
The snickering already echoes through the hall, taunting me to respond. It seems the news has reached some unkind ears…
Disappointment doesn’t begin to cover the feelings I harbour since this last rejection befell in my hands. For I was certain my project had some merit! Alas… I found myself once again cheated by the glimmer of hope, which had settled into my silly feminine mind following the quite positive rounds of reviews. All my efforts… it might not have been for naught, but it still wasn’t enough for the judges.
“But, my dear,” I can already hear you say, “can you really find no fault in your methods? I recall–”
Oh, but so right you would recall these past months, seeing me arduously at my task, burning the midnight oil, unrelenting with my wish of submitting my last masterpiece (or so I foolishly believed it to be). An important project, you kept reminded me, that required time - much more time than I would end up allocating. Always more time than I ever allow myself.
And so, but two weeks before it was meant to leave my hands, I seriously sat down, took my quill, and finally penned on those cream sheets my words, transforming ideas that had been frivolously scribbled in my (now burnt) journal into proper writing.
It had been months since I first thought about this project and mulled it over. Knowing full well the deadline was fast approaching, yet still resting on my laurels (you must surely remember last year’s triumph, where I took but a month to complete my awarded study! why did I ever think I could recreate this one-of-a-kind?!), not once suspecting I would be wasting precious time.
“But, my angel,” I would surely protest, “have you already forgotten…”
Prior to those two weeks, my mind was elsewhere, filled with dangerous thoughts and ideas. You must remember my struggles with standing still, with focusing on but one thought at a time, with even keeping track of progress. Even you, I recall, expressed quite the dissatisfaction with the time spent together.
And complained even more when I finally brought myself to get on with this task, leaving you utterly alone and attention-less. What crime it was, and for this, I beg your forgiveness.
It would not be the only time I would do so, for only a month later, you complained yet again of my behaviour!
It is really a fault of mine, that I cannot seem to manage my time, always distracted by new prospects (except in love, I assure you!), anxious of not participating enough, feeling unworthy for the little I can show. I swear, again and again, that I would try to change, pace myself down and regroup my thoughts, or simply spend more time on one idea. But I cannot seem to help myself. The drive is too strong, too powerful to stop it. I must always strive to do, more, better, always, forever…
Even if I find myself stumbling, hurt, crushed…
I fear all this talk about failure may have washed away the details of the project. I am sure you certainly remember it all, having heard me rambling day-in and day-out, but for clarity sake, I shall recount this whole affair.
Some months ago, a strange news reached my ears, about some strange character using illusions to hide their true goals, their true wants, their true nature. Coming from distant land, they settled in a small quaint town, before it is plagued with some queer events.
Or was it maybe…
a recovered journal from a doctor in a small village in the country, recounting the final days of its existence, starting just before a stranger arrives and set it ablaze in chaos. Among other… a plague.
Or maybe…
a tale of a disgraced doctor following a horrendous scandal*, forced to return to the place she swore she would never set foot into, leaving behind the love of her life in a heart-wrenching manner, only to find herself embroiled in some strange conspiracy.
Could you believe this to happen?
*I will admit, this horrendous scandal did no appear right away, but revealed itself quite late into the process.
Many widely different accounts of one singular event fought to be crowned the truth, and my research into the matter revealed itself futile (until that eleventh hour those final weeks). Yet, my goal had always been simple: recounting, to the best of my abilities, the event that transpired during this strange conflicting period.
Perhaps, I wonder, if the inspiration for this project weakened its foundation. I am afraid I must remind you of this painting we saw at the gallery quite some time ago, and of your hurt feelings when your emeralds landed its gaze upon the portrait. Your rage was so, you could have burned it to the ground had I not embraced you right there and then. And these was also this obvious book, which many remarked upon, and which I could not hide behind. Nor could I ever claim to amount to its greatness. Most controversial finally, was this pairing, which I am as well sorry to remind you about. I know you abhor seeing those name together. But I must admit it influenced this project more than you will ever know.
I swear I will one day get around to read those letters you recommended oh so many times… I have not forgotten, for you have reminded me aplenty, I just never got around to sit down and enjoy them.
Some thoughts about the format went into the process. I fancied myself writing a fore- and post- note into the matter, hoping to contextualise the disorderly… mess I was left with and vouching for the authenticity of the texts found. I must say, in hindsight, I am only glad I did not follow that route, for it would surely have not been received well (or made sense…).
I struggled with a similar thought last year, and was glad then I had discarded it.
A change of focus from the diary to the exchange of letters provided itself fruitful, as I could find more reliable source on the event - thought it seems the result of that affair does not seem quite settled, as diverging reports still cannot account for the true situation of the involved individuals. Still, I hope I have done my duty in telling this tale as best I could.
It was just in time that I managed to submit the first version of the project, which…
… was not at first received badly. Save for an embarrassing amount of minor errors, in the style rather than the form, only few returns were less than gleaming.
Oh, how wrong to believe laurels would be meeting my temples!
Yet, rather than attempt on improving upon my work, believing it already a flawless diamond, I dilly-dallied, let time fleet away between my fingers, avoided opening my files (discarded them even!), pretended there was no need to start for a long while still. Whatever betterment I could add, new findings I could report, new ways of sharing my work, I truly was certain this time, well, time would be on my side!
It was… not. Of course.
As you surely remember me scurrying through my papers, only two weeks again before all was due, re-transcribing my words again and again, changing vernacular or even plume, tempted to take dangerous paths that would lead me missing that final crucial deadline. It was just with a few seconds to spare that my work was received.
My heart bursting through my chest as the pamphlets left my shaking fingers. I laid on your floor for hours, days I would even assume, with my head spinning, worrying it would not be up to par. Only little sleep was found that night… or the following ones.
With this new version came its sets of challenges. Though I believed I had done my best with the time I had ended allocating myself*, I could not vouch for its quality. The intricacies in transcribing my words were difficult to entangle, even with my fluency in the matter. I was expecting, quite frankly, confirmation that this new work was but a pale copy of the original. I did not believe, myself, in the work I had done.
*granted, I had found myself a new distraction…
And now I wonder… had it shown?
The reception of this new version was of similar magnitude to the previous one, though this round of commentary was maybe more thorough and detailed as a whole. Detailed wrongs were more prominently communicated (to my utter dismay), but so were the detailed rights (to my relief)!
Yet, relief was short lived, as doubts still haunted me.
- Should I have included more into the project? Attempted to fill in the gaps between missives with imagined ones, knowing full well I would be inventing and meddling with historical and asserted documents?
- Should I have slowed the pace of what was already a sizeable project, or considered less extreme alternatives? Added details to the accounts or compare them with others? Explored more the situation?
- Should I have included the responses of the mysterious and controversial correspondent, known to all to be certainly lost and of no matter considering the value the primary sources at hand? Or deepened the bond between the involved individuals?
- Should I have let the assessors adding their own version on the matter, regardless of the consequences, narration be damned?
But I still could not touch it, afraid I would worsen it irrevocably.
And so, when first official response from the Congrès returned, after weeks of delays, I’m afraid I let my humour sour our time together. It was as if a spear had transpierced my being, taking my soul along. Sullen, to say the least, I lamented to any willing ear of my despair in regards to my situation. Yet… I did not dare bothering your wonderful ears with my issues, for you would not take it quite as seriously as I had.
“There will be other opportunities,” you would remind me. “Like that other–”
And now, we return to the object of this already too long missive. It is over, ma chère. I have exhausted every venue, every path, every option. There is no going back and change a thing. This project is no more, it never was, it never will be. No, they said. Loud and clear. I shall resign myself to my fate, as tragic as it may be…
Prey tell, ma douce Olympia, was I always meant to fail?
I fear… I fear some forces are conspiring behind closed doors. Uncomfortable looks already fall upon my person when I cross the halls. Already I imagine myself barred entry to my study, to the school, to even… your arms.
Oh, how would a separation destroy me!
Olympia, I beg of you, release me from these crushing insecurities and doubts!
Votre servante, fievreuse de vous servir jusqu’à la fin de mes jours,
… Votre amante, en manque d’égo,
… … Isabella
PS: Monsieur D’Archambaut vous demande, dis-donc… Savez-vous pourquoi?
Goodness M,
You don’t say… That goes beyond being a drama queen at this point…
Where did you even find this?!Do you think… we can destroy it? Pretend it never existed?
I would hate for someone to find out how insane that Isabella was… and ruin our original work.S.T.
PS: Do you think we can make it a tag-yourself-meme, because I’m definitely a pale copy of the original
