Let’s face it my friend, you can’t write!

Years ago, as I was still a marketing executive spending a great deal of time traveling all over Europe, I nurtured my life-long dream of being a novelist by writing on airplanes, in hotel rooms and yes sometimes during boring meetings. And so it was that one day I completed the manuscript of my first novel entitled L’entre deux vies (Between two lives), a story that foreshadowed the direction my life would later take, but of course I didn’t know that at the time.

The first reader of my manuscript was my father. Not exactly unbiased, he raved about my accomplishment and said: “I have an idea. I happen to know Maurice Schumann.”

Here a word of explanation: Schumann was a bona fide celebrity. As a confidant of de Gaulle in London he was lionized as the radio voice of the Free French during the war and later served as France’s Foreign Minister under President Pompidou. Last but certainly not least he was one of the 40 members of the Académie Française, one of the so-called Immortals. When it came to cultural status in France there was no more respected position.

“So,” said my father, “I know Maurice Schumann and you know Georges Conchon.”

Georges Conchon was a best-selling novelist and the winner of the Prix Goncourt, France’s most prestigious literary award, for his novel L’état sauvage which he later transposed for the cinema. The movie, Black and White in Color went on to win the Oscar for best foreign movie. Conchon also wrote several blockbuster movies.

“So,” continued my father. “You know Georges Conchon.”

“Well, I met him once. I can’t say I know him.”

“No matter. We will send your manuscript to Schumann and Conchon, two luminaries if there ever were, and I’ll invite them for lunch at the exclusive Cercle Interallié.”

I arrived first on the appointed day and rose when Schumann and my father made their entrance. Heads turned. Schumann, the former minister and académicien!

The great man took my hands and said: “Young man, what a wonderful novel! You are such a talented writer. This is marvelous work.”

My father was beaming and I could read his look: What did I tell you?

Then Conchon arrived and heads turned again. He too was a big time celebrity. He had read my manuscript but didn’t talk much about it. During lunch he and Schumann talked mainly politics.

Finally it was time for my father to ask for the check. Never had he been happier to pay for lunch. We all rose and Schumann took my hands again, repeating: “Young man. This is a truly splendid novel. You are so talented!”

I attempted to remain modest, but truth be told, I was residing on cloud nine.

I then turned to Georges Conchon and said: “I have my car outside, may I drive you home?”

“Certainly.”

I was about to start the car when I heard Conchon sigh and exclaim: “What an ass!”

Had I heard correctly? “I beg your pardon?”

“Schumann, what an ass!” He paused and added: “Let’s face it my friend, you can’t write.”

Seconds passed that felt like hours. And then, as I was struggling to regain my composure, Conchon added: “But I think we can do something about it.”

And this man who hardly knew me, who owed me absolutely nothing and certainly didn’t need me proceeded to invite me to the beautiful country house he had bought with his royalties. In the morning, we would go to his office or sit at a table in the garden and he’d take my manuscript apart:

“Look. If your readers aren’t totally stupid, they’ve understood this a long time ago. Take it out.”

or:

“Oh! This is a cliché. You don’t want clichés. Take it out.”

or:

“Ah ah! This is a pretty good paragraph. I like it. So don’t bury it in the middle of the chapter, bring it up.”

And so on and so forth. Georges Conchon taught me that there was a lot more to writing a novel than just telling a story, that it is a craft, that it is a lot of hard work and that there are rules, some meant to be always adhered to, some to be broken when necessary.

When I finally completed the rewrite of my novel, Georges Conchon submitted it himself to his publisher, Albin Michel. They didn’t publish it, but it didn’t matter, I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Besides, they published my novel Simple Soldat, several years later.

Georges Conchon passed away several years ago, but I will never forget his extraordinary generosity.

Let’s face it, Georges, my friend, you were a great man.