These are the questions of a person who does not create. If he painted, or wrote, or drew, or composed, or in any other way was a producing artist, he would understand how meaningless those questions are.
The answers are: 1) If it didn't mean a great deal to me, I wouldn't be wasting my time on it. 2) Not the way you want me to see him, and there's no help for it, so don't take it personally. 3) When the work is going well, there are a lot of little moments where you put something down and you think, Yes. That's what I meant. That's it exactly.
These moments are what the artist lives for. The finished product is mostly incidental, a relief, like giving birth. Here is one of those "Yes" moments:
About halfway down the inner wall was a fireplace with extended wings built onto it, onto which was grafted a network of ovens and copper piping. Trace bent over next to it, intrigued, noting the high-supported water casket and the leather bellows built into the hearth. It seemed water was heated in a copper drum over the fire, from which steam could be directed via a series of valves through various conduits, either to the tin basin or the marble table or a small spigot. Above the water drum, a vent opened every few seconds to let out a puff of scalding vapor. He touched one porcelain valve handle with the tip of his finger and it turned easily, letting a spill of water into the tin basin behind him. He heard it patter on the metal, and turned to see it run down a series of grooves, to a trough at the end of the basin, and down a tube into the floor.
Pure steampunk. But not. I still have not found anything remotely close to this in mainstream publishing, and I find that more inspiring than anything.
3 comments:
Oh Ghod. The problem with these stories, this whole concept, has always been the disconnect--or at least my perceived disconnect--between the Sabine/Trace conflict, the lesson learned in the plot, and the actual mission de jour.
Frankly, I think it's all great; it's like three different-colored strands all braided together for contrast, but some poor slob could start reading this thing, thinking it was a nice little socially-conscious historical western-mellerdrama, and come away shellshocked with blood and horror.
Man is that cool.
The irony is, my husband would probably be happier with your overwrought Saturday-matinee style than he is with my understated prose.
Last night I was telling him about Sabine's workroom, and the vivisections, and some of the visual stuff, and he said, "see, that's what I'm talking about!"
I snorted and informed him I knew what I was doing and he should lay off. He said, "No, you just swing your white cane around and occasionally manage to hit something."
I used to think it would be great if my husband shared my interest in writing and storytelling. Now I think it may be the end of our marriage. This is why I didn't marry another artist.
I love her dearly, but I only rarely involve my wife in my writing. The decision is quite mutual; only way we ever collaborate is if she happens to see something I'm doing, and take enough interest, and I say okay, it's something in a zone where I think I'm comfortable enough with that.
It's a bit of a pity, as she's a very competent editor (we've both worked as reporters, in the day; actually met at a paper, originally). But I find it gets too complicated. None too surprisingly, I think, I'm far touchier about her opinions than anyone else's--can't seem to give her the slack an editor needs. When we're not on the same page aesthetically (which happens entirely predictably, in a certain territory of my writing), I'm positively irrational about it. Which gets neither our relationship nor the work anywhere.
It also seems to me, the places a writer sometimes needs to go, emotionally, in writing compelling fiction, it's not really fair of me to ask anyone I care about to come there with me. That kind of mission should always be on a volunteer basis.
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