I know. You’re probably thinking, That’s an odd title. Wonder what it means.
This post is not about my novel. The one I’ve been editing so long–and so much–that it’s kept me from this blog for a month (Sorry about that, by the way. I promise to blog more frequently in the future. I appreciate the followers I have, who read all my new stuff. Here’s hoping you guys will follow me into the bound word).
This post is about artists.
The people who write, who make films, who act, who paint giant paintings, be they of apple orchards or starry nights, or…
Whether a story is fictitious, or a meticulously realized documentary, or a portrait of the street an old man remembers growing up on as a young boy, the art we make is not just to satisfy a potential–and, if you’ve made it, you lucky few–a devoted audience. If artists are honest with themselves, all art is a way of leaving a legacy, a way of preserving and protecting the young child they once were, even after they grow so old they forget him. Maybe this child was awkward, and their greatest talent was that at which they work, or they might have been popular, and their peers always knew they’d make it.
Whatever the case, readers, film and theatergoers, admirers, fans, and especially agents should remember this:
The economy has a bottom line, and that’s money. We all know that. The artist’s bottom line is this: Is it true to me? Is it who I am?
Honestly, if the answer to those two questions is, “Yes”, then I can’t care what an editor tells me. I can’t accept, “This is just too Hallmark.” If it’s true to me, and if I think it will be true to others, it stays.
That being said, my novel sits now in a state of limbo. What it is is not what it will be. I am hammering away every day to bring out the truest representation of me on the page. If you get it, eventually, when it’s out there and ready to be got, that’ll be so great; maybe we’ll share a scone and talk books, movies, TV–art in general–in a little cafe somewhere down the road.