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One moment ago, I leaned back in my chair brain fatigued
and opened a random page of Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way.
A small quote on the right hand of page 141 gave me an
oracle for the day:
"Art? You just do it."--Martin Ritt
There is more to be said about art if you want to go
into the content of the page, which is "Filling Out the Form."
Cameron explained that if you are writing a screenplay—which I'm not—you must
do the steps: Think of an idea, commit it to paper, and then write page by page
for 120 pages. That's your daily work. And when obsession strikes—and it will—how
the damn thing is not any good, you put that question aside and go back and
write the next page.
I had completed a synopsis of a book I have written when
I turned to Cameron’s book. I take that back; I had brain fatigue, but I can't
say the synopsis is complete. I need to go over it again.
I was telling the story that agent’s and publisher’s
request. They want the skeleton of the plot and the ending—no hiding that from
them.
That took more work than writing the book. Although I
shouldn't say that either, for I've spent more years than I can to mention on that
book.
So, the years passed, but I haven't been hitting the
keys continually to write it. After I read that a protagonist needs to be young
and beautiful, I rebelled and wrote a story about a 65-year-old woman, single,
a schoolteacher, who retired on the first page. (She is lovely, I couldn't
resist.)
A friend said, "A spinster schoolteacher, that
won't fly."
We'll see.
The first page changed. Instead, it begins with Miss
Sara Rose’s granddaughter, fifteen-year-old Patrice. You know how kids are,
they write their own story. To go back a bit, Sara Rose had a dream.
That dream was to ride a river in Africa.
I changed things, I rewrote it. I added a second twist
that involves a mystery.
I was learning. I didn't
think I could write, but I liked the idea. I thought I could only write in the
first person until, halfway through, I found that I could write in third. I
thought I couldn't write dialogue, but I did it anyway, poorly, but I did it.
I’ve written many things since then. I’ve blogged, written
books, and it hasn’t taken me as many years as this one, but that book was my basic
learning experience.
You artists know why you do it.
You are dreaming through your fingers—no matter the
art form. It could be the dough that grows beneath your fingers. The fragrance
of yeast wafts up into your face until your cheeks are pink from the joy of it.
Your hands mold that pliant pile of flour, yeast, salt, and water until it is “spankable.”
When it’s formed into a loaf and placed in the oven, the house smells so
delectable it makes the angels sing. (I’ve been reading about making a sourdough
starter.)
"Art? You just do it."
