If you've been around for a while, you know English isn't my first language. French is. I love French. It is beautiful, lyrical, impassionate. I become quite rant-y when it comes to defending it (which is, for the record, a big issue in Quebec).
Why, then, do I write in English?
Perhaps the hardest question I've ever been asked. It comes from strangers. It comes from friends. It comes from my mom, and that is perhaps the hardest to deal with.
After years of fumbling about, trying to come to terms with it, I think I have an answer. It is a simple one. All I needed was to look at why I write.
I write to reach out. I hope these novels, these characters, will one day touch someone's heart. That there'll be a reader emerging from my story with the feeling they're a little more human now, a little different.
If I hope to reach out one day, to as many as I can, I need English. I'm good with it. It's a wonderful and powerful tool to have. I'm not going to ditch it.
French is what I am. It defines me in more ways than I dare count. English is what I use. It might be a fine line, but to me it is an important one.