It’s been a little while since I’ve had a chance to sit down at the keyboard and think at you. Now that I’m back in the groove of word production, I’m feeling good writing vibes. It doesn’t hurt that I actually wrote a story I really like. I don’t know if Oliver Toddle will find a home somewhere, but the story makes me feel, and honestly, sometimes that’s the best reason to write.
Which leads to this.
I know that there are many ways to get derailed in the world of publishing and authorship. Because we are rejected, we sometimes measure ourselves by how others measure us. We worry if we’re the only person who will find our book any good. We worry about what critics will say. Worry. Stew. Fret. Worry.
But the best thing, the best thing is when you like your work. Not in the “I’m a god-like” afterglow of the thing as you transcribe it onto the page the first time, but rather the deep satisfaction you get after you put a polish on the writing and you know in your heart and your gut it works.
Even if someone doesn’t quite love it enough to publish it.
My Bryon paints. He paints beautiful giant cels of what things would look like if they were done in old style animation. He translates art into a different medium. Since his work derives from another artist’s, he jokingly calls himself a parasite artist. He will tell me that he sees what he does as more of a craft than an art. I suggest to him, after looking at another beautiful cel, that he is wrong, but he takes great pride in being a craftsman, rather than an artist.
I think a writer must walk the line between inspired artist and craft apprentice. When I reach the deep feeling of content with a story after I’ve polished it, then I feel why Bryon takes such pride in craft.
Well. Tonight, after domestic tasks, I rip off the roof of chapter 3 of the troll story. The first two chapters required exceptionally little tweaking. I”m about to eliminate a character, I think, and revamp Old Nick versus the troll garrison. That ought to keep me out of trouble.