My decision to write in English over the weekend might have been rushed. As soon as I come up with a new idea or a new project, I’m overwhelmed with doubts. I spend my life in this permanent state of mind.
To be honest, I can’t deny I feel like I’m being unfaithful to my mother tongue. French and I, we go way back… and I still have deep feelings for my mother tongue (quite an understatement).
I’ve been living in the UK for years now. However, because I’ve spent the last two or three months writing in French daily, my mother tongue has constantly been at the forefront. This means I haven’t been as fluent in English as I used to be. Going back and forth between the two languages, constantly translating from one language into another, it’s taking its toll on my brain power. In the evening, I’m brain dead.
Reading about Aliette de Bodard inspired me. I now know it’s doable for a native French speaker to write fiction in English – at least, I have an example of a successful French writer who does so. It will take years before I can accomplish a similar feat – and I might never be able to achieve that…
Why am I bothering with such an arduous task when I could write in my first language, pen fiction immediately and be published again in 2019 (and not sometime in the far future)?