Photo by Miho Fletcher
When I make art, I say, "I'm an artist, so that's that." And I go ahead and jump into the volcano of weirdness. And everything eventually works itself out.
I mean I am in the business of making books ~ sometimes I'm illustrating, sometimes writing, and sometimes staring at snails. But the outcome can be so satisfying. A good yarn, brings lots of smiles. So whether the "book" arrives in the traditional form, like on papyrus, or whether it zaps us via digital whatchyacallits, stories can captivate.
But when one begins writing, "they" swoop down from Valhalla's underbelly and block the path. I'm talking about the guardians. "Sorry, you can't get there from here," they insist.
Pay them no mind, and don't give them eye contact. Close your eyes and let the daisies flow out of your brain. It doesn't have to be daisies. But I have been writing about daisies and I have to tell ya, I've gotten quite chummy with them.
I find that when writing, it's hard at first to tell what's real, what's reflection, and what's ridiculous. It always starts out as a wrestling match. But in the end, one of you will win. Unless it's a draw.
I'm wrestling with this poem to say what I mean:
Writing is like
A scarf that won't silk
A cow that won't milk
A corpse that can't die
And a fish that shan't fry
The butter don't melt
The hat's not felt
Why it's a dog cain't hunt
A football won't punt
A fly no fly
Glue no glue
Thought no think
Stopper no sink
Pig no sty
Blush no shy
Pen no write
Plane no flight
Flower no bloom
Rocket no zoom
Clock no time
Poem no rhyme.
Writing is wrestling
With thoughts
That have thoughts
Of their own.
