Between a Newborn and a New Book

Yesterday, I decided to close my shop for Quebec's National Day.

After several busy weeks, I was looking forward to a quiet day. No passport photos, no urgent printing jobs, no last-minute banners waiting to be finished.

Just time.

Time to scan old family photographs.

Time to digitize MiniDV tapes for an Italian mother who wanted to preserve her memories.

Time to organize documents from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries belonging to a family from Westmount.

And above all, time to wait for the arrival of a few copies of my novel, Nonimportantech.

A day dedicated to memory.

Or so I thought.

As often happens, life had other plans.

In the afternoon, a family walked into the shop carrying a baby who was just over a week old.

The father was from Mexico.

The mother was from Kyrgyzstan.

And this little Montrealer had come to take his very first Canadian passport photo.

I have always found newborn passport photos fascinating.

The entire world is still ahead of them.

They know nothing about borders, languages, politics, or the countless disagreements that occupy adults.

They simply exist.

Yet, looking at this child, I could already see several continents meeting in a single smile.

For a few minutes, the entire shop revolved around this new face.

Then the quiet returned.

Around eight o'clock in the evening, the delivery finally arrived.

Five English copies.

Five French copies.

After years of writing, rewriting, editing, and doubting, Nonimportantech finally existed as a physical book.

The paper is Groundwood paper, a more environmentally friendly choice.

The French edition still suffers from a frustrating word-break issue that I have not yet managed to solve completely.

But despite its imperfections, the book was finally here.

I opened it carefully.

Turned the pages.

Smelled the fresh paper.

Then I brought one English copy and one French copy home for my children.

The rest remained on the counter at the shop.

Waiting.

Today, something new began.

Several customers noticed the books.

Some picked them up.

Others read the back cover.

A few started asking questions.

Where did this story come from?

Why did you write it?

Is it autobiographical?

Why publish it in both English and French?

Conversations began.

Quietly.

Naturally.

As if the book had started to live its own life.

It is a strange moment for an author.

For years, a manuscript belongs entirely to you.

Then one day, it stops belonging only to you.

It becomes an object that other people can touch, browse, question, enjoy, or simply put back on the shelf.

And that is exactly how it should be.

Looking back, I realize that the entire day was really about the same thing.

The old photographs.

The MiniDV tapes.

The historical documents.

The newborn baby.

The novel.

All of them were connected by time.

Some were preserving the past.

Others had only just arrived in the future.

And somewhere in between are stories.

The stories we tell.

The stories we write.

The stories we pass on.

Like trees, books are never planted for themselves.

We nurture them for years.

Then one day they begin a journey of their own.

And all an author can do is hope they will find a few readers along the way.