Saint David's Day

My neighbor is an artist. It's not just that she can paint and make pretty things. She actually sees things differently than anyone else I know. She's either an artist or an alien. Since I've never been inside the brain of either one, I'm going to stick with artist. It has nicer connotations. Last month she had an art show at a local theater. I didn't know about it until the last week of the show, and wasn't able to make it until the very last night. Unfortunately, when we got there we found that they were holding auditions for a play in the same room as the art show, and Penny was sneaking in between auditions to take out her pieces as she could. Darn actors (and I'm pretty certain they are aliens). However, being my neighbor, and a very nice lady (not an alien), Penny gave us our own personal show at her house yesterday before she finished putting all of her art away. A writer can learn a lot from an artist.

First I have to say that Penny is amazing. Her house, which has the exact same floor plan as ours, is as utterly different from ours as can be, and it doesn't even have that much to do with the fact that her children are grown and mine continue to trash the place. It is the home of an artist, and if you don't know what that means, then I can't help you. Her home itself is art.

I would be hard pressed to say which of her art I like the best. Her paintings are beautiful, some of them based on other, famous paintings, but somehow they are more vibrant and alive than the originals (she is particularly fond of van Gogh and his Starry Night, which never touched me as much as it does now, seeing her affection for it). She also makes . . . statues? Object? Things? Out of . . . stuff. I might love those the best. She has a series of people made out of cork screws that I dearly love. Those . . . statues are what make me think she's an alien. I flatly don't have the ability to draw or paint, and I don't know how other people do it, but I 'get' that they do. You look at something and you recreate it in a picture. That makes sense, even if the thing you see is only in your head. But taking wing nuts and steamers and funnels and spoons and circuit boards and cheese graters and . . . stuff I don't even know the name or function of and turning them into things . . . That's magic. That's creativity I can't comprehend. That's alien and beautiful and makes a little ache inside of me that I'm not like that too.

When I was young I wanted to be a poet. Truth to tell, I wanted to be Robert Frost reincarnated. His words make pictures in my head and those pictures take my breath away. I wanted to do that for other people. I wanted to make pictures with words that would make people see what I see, because what I saw was so amazingly beautiful (it was western Oregon, of course it was beautiful). I did poetry for a while, and I really enjoyed it (though I don't know that I was ever Robert Frost reincarnated). Then I took a class in college that wanted me to write a story along with all the poetry we wrote. I've written very little poetry since, but I write a lot of stories (or at least I start them . . .) I've told myself stories my whole life, and goodness knows I've read them, I just never really wrote them down before. Now I do. And when I was looking at Penny's people, that little voice that seldom leaves me alone said "There are stories here."

That is how I see the world. Where artists see form and color, I see characters and settings. Penny has boxes and drawers of 'stuff' she has collected, just waiting to be turned into something else. I have snatches of conversations, news articles, pictures somebody else took, waiting to be turned into something else, but something made out of words.

Penny showed us a series of paintings she did of the creation. They are beautiful and inspiring and made out of cardboard. One of them had a foot right in the middle of it, a cardboard foot right at the center of creation. It was perfect. As Penny was talking, she pointed to it and said that a friend of hers pointed out that the piece of cardboard looked just like a foot. Penny had never noticed it. She certainly hadn't done it on purpose. I got all excited inside. That happens to me all the time. I'll write something, only to find out later how vital and important it was to the story. I don't know if that makes me completely incompetent or utterly brilliant, but I think I'm sticking with brilliant for now. Penny certainly is, and it works for her.

Penny sold some of her pieces at the show, which is both good and confusing. I don't know how she had anything left to come back with. If I had the money and the room to put it, I would clean her out and she'd have to start all over again. She was both happy and sad to have sold her stuff, and some of her pieces weren't for sale at all. That's when I had another heart-pounding moment, and really the reason I had to write this today. She said she hates working for money. She has to do it for love, and if somebody buys it later, that's okay, but she has to create because she loves what she's creating. And it all made sense to me. I have been struggling for weeks--for months, really--trying to get my book ready to submit. Ready to sell. I have been to conferences, workshops, classes, read blogs and web sites. Only submit your best stuff (even though we all know once an editor gets hold of it there are going to be changes). My sister gave me until Valentine's Day to submit, because it's written isn't it, and all you have to do is send it in. I've wondered how on earth a story about three siblings and their dragons is ever going to sell. Sell. I got hung up on that word. I love my story, but I've been focusing on selling it, not loving it more. When Penny sells her work, it's gone from her. I assume she's taken pictures or something, but she's only got the one, and when it's gone, it's gone. She loves it until somebody else comes along and loves it. I've been trying to make my story good enough for somebody else to love it, which is silly when you think about it. Once my story is published, and it's out there in the world, if I don't love it, I'll still have it on my computer where I can change it if I want to, even if it is only for me. I need to make my story what I love now, and then we'll see what happens. Changes will come again later, I'm certain, but I have to love it first, the best I can, and when I'm doing it just for me, it takes so much pressure off.