feh. &c.

[catsidhe]

Woof.

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Abbi was very proud of herself yesterday when she went off to childcare. She was wearing a skirt and proudly proclaimed "I look like a princess!"

It is said that every father likes the idea of his daughter being a princess. Not least, however, because of what this implies of his status.

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I think I know what was the straw that drew the Dog onto me: Rolf Harris' Celebrity Portraits last night. It's wonderful to watch, but when I do, all I can think about, in between bouts of crippling envy as to the artists' skill, is that I used to draw. I used to paint. I haven't picked up a pencil in anger in over a decade, and when I try now, I am so disgusted with my attempts that I have to give up. And as for painting, I would love to paint. I just have to set up an easel and canvas. I just have to get an easel and canvas I just have to find a place to set up an easel and canvas i just have to find the time to work on an easel and canvas ijusthavetohave the skillto dosomethingworthwhile withaneasel andcanvasijusthavetohavetohaveto...

Ah fuckit.

I can't read Charles de Lint's Memories and Dreams either, for the same reason. It is full, from beginning to end, of descriptions of the joy of painting, of the way you can lose yourself in creation, and surround yourself with the results, and thus pass some of that joy on to others. I once had a taste of that. Ok, so I wasn't Leonardo, but I could dream. And now I fear that I will never feel that joy again.¹

And on my friends list are so many brilliant writers. At least one for whom writing is his profession, and tooticky who has won her way into a writing workshop. (That is, won as the prize for effort, rather than through dumb luck.) And me? I can whinge. I have written the occasional decent diatribe. But I just can't put the pieces together to write a story, whether short or long. I spend far too much time at the level of words and sentences to be able to stand back and look at plot or character. I don't even know where to begin.

And even if I did know, I don't have the time to practice. My time is chopped into little pieces, whatever the day, or time of day, or place. And flow is as important to art as it is to coding. You need that time to get the work into your head, and get your head around it before you can start to meaningfully add to what's there, and once you're in that flow then time ceases to have meaning. Flow is a precious state

... three hours later ...

You see, that's exactly what I'm talking about.

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Right now I just want to hide under my desk and cry. Literally.

I used up today's quota of 'happyface' earlier this morning, and now I can't even bring myself to fake being cheerful.

I hate that dog.

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[1] Of course, at the moment I find it hard to feel any joy whatsoever, but you get the idea.

Comments

Re: On Flow

[tooticky.livejournal.com]

Then "flow" is a programmers word for what writers I know, like Alecto23 and zombine-monkey, called the "writer's high". Musicians get it too. So do fighters. You become what you are doing. It's utterly intoxicating. Better than being in love, I think. Better or just about as good as the best sex- and you can have it in sex too, now I think about it. but being in love is closer. But like infatuation, I think that it's not always a reliable feeling, or a test of the worth of your work.
I last got it in January this year- I was writing about flying. And I seriously flew. For about two weeks, whether I was writing or not, I was in the story. Yes, it takes time and immersion, and it's disorienting to be yanked out of it. But it seems to partially be a product of your "engine running hot", so setting out looking for it won't work. And while work produced in that state feels blessed, if you look for the state before you look for the process and the work, then you'll never feel it. Also, the real work of making something, as you know, is the spade work. Not the euphoria.
Negotiating the euphoria of the writer's high, the way that the world was over-laid with alternate worlds, stories and meaning, how all I "really " wanted to do was write, while working, having a partner, trying to have a life- it was jarring and weird, but good. But it also went away. Engines need to cool down, and i got distracted by weddings and stuff. The disorientation is a price that I'm willing to pay for the sake of feeling that good in the first place.
However, I'm not worried that I'll never feel it again. I think that's one thing this year has taught me. Flow is the by-product of the work, not the work itself. The place in my mind where the stories live not only churns away, but when the insights come, these days I try to get them down in notes at least for later. That invites more to come. And then when I have time, i sit down and string them together, and suddenly I'm writing. And flying, without even worrying about how I've done it.
I have little doubt that if you keep inviting your ideas by jotting them or sketching them down, no matter how silly they may seem to you at the time, sooner or later you'll find the "flow". You know how it feels already.

Re: On Flow

[usuakari.livejournal.com]

I knew there was a reason I married you... even if I'm not completely sure I actually agree with your position (which just makes it more interesting, in the end). :)

Catsidhe, one thing that does spring to mind is that (like many of us) you're probably over-thinking the issue. "Try? There is no try." Just go and paint or draw something, and then go and paint or draw something else. Worry about the results later. Maybe miniatures would be a good start, as I seem to remember that you're pretty good at them.

And as your Mum pointed out, the calligraphy ad illumination surely count.