Impressions after the graphite's gone.

I'm not going to edit this post after I finish writing it. Why? Because it's about being IN the moment of creating, but moving carefully while there. So, even while writing, I'll be using some of the same tools I've been pulling out of the bag for art and for cooking the past few weeks since my last post.

A friend of mine is a fellow writer, well published in children's non-fiction, as well as an incredible copy editor. Her first fiction novel has gotten a few interested nibbles, but no more. Which is a shame. Her birthday was coming up. I was a little broke, but I had a little bit of time. I decided to do a drawing for it. I found some paper, and unearthed my pastels. I pulled out a scene from her book, looked for any descriptors of her main character and got started.

The scene I'd picked described characters riding horses along a cathedral-like archway of beeches with hanging bells. At first I tried to make the archway go down to the center. That didn't work. My second attempt the archways looked as if they brushed the top of the character's head. Oppressive and not inspiring. I kept at it till I found something I could work with.

I erased a lot. But because I'd picked a paper that was on hand, errors remained. It was cold press, and in the end, not the best choice for pastels. I also forgot to use a piece of paper under my hand, so my pencil marks smudged. However, the first viewing--before it was finished--met with more than just a little approval.

I think that working on this drawing, as well as on a birthday cake brought me some added creative perspective. I noticed it when I started cooking real food again.

When you're working on a canvas--paper in this instance--you face the possibility that you can't erase all the errors you make. A hard, but very light pencil, might leave it's impression on the paper even after the graphite is gone. The rough surface might want to keep the smudge. Cooking is similar, but at least with cooking, the results aren't permanent. There is another day. But with a very tight budget I can't call for take out if what I've cooked is awful. I still have to eat it.

Writing novels, for almost all the writers I know, there's the writing part and then the editing, and the editing, the revising, the re-writing, and then some more editing again. You can change it up if you're not happy...at least in my stage of the game; I don't have to worry about deadlines. Working on artwork, cooking on the fly and with whatever is on hand I learn another side to the creative process. I have to live with the artwork (or my friend does once she finally gets it), or I have to eat my cooking. When I'm sitting in front of a canvas, or a bunch of ingredients, there's a sense of, "Okay, let's see what I can come up with!" as well as a great deal of care.

I want my gift to be loved, to show my love. I want my food to be glorious when I eat it, to celebrate the experience of the cooking as well as the eating. And I can play.

I can play when I draw or cook. But I just realized that I might have lied just a little to myself. Despite the editing process, I can't play with writing. It matters so darned much what happens to my characters. So perhaps one reason I like doing more than just writing novels in my creative endeavors, is that I can let go and fly just a little bit when the stakes aren't quite as high, even when they're still very important. Extending my wings in these different pursuits helps me flex my writing muscles when I'm facing that blank page.