Bad Muse Day

In some alternate universe, I'm certain that I wrote well today.  (Sigh.)

Whither Novels?

Just got the question, from an unhappy theatre fan.  As she put it to me...

You write such beautiful plays , what the heck are you doing writing novels now?

Well, it's been a long process in coming, but basically my writing has grown too searching to fit into the one hundred minutes granted in stagetime.

Put another way - since I believe that all artists either accept that they are entertainers or that the only applause received will be their own - the most common remark about my last plays A Dropped Stitch, Teacup Tipsy and One Tile Short went as follows:

Um, I'm not sure I got all that.  I'm going to have to see it again.  Maybe three times.

Not a good sign.

Imagine my shock when one of the sweetest hearts in the world, an old theatre salt of decades' experience, quietly confided in me that she understood only about one third of Man In The Box's lines in Teacup Tipsy.  And that was after I felt artistically frustrated at having to take out, compress, boil down, etc., the writing.

In contrast, when I was writing Fighting for Eden, the canvas (so to speak) was so incomprehensibly huge that I felt lost in it for months at a time.  Over-shadowed, humbled, even crushed at times by the gargantuan portions.

Which is why, whenever I pick up a copy, I know that I am holding a year of my life in my hands.

At any rate, yes, I am certain that I will write for the stage again someday.  Just not soon.  At the least, I really want to finish this second big canvas, first.

Enjoy the Game!

Enjoy the Game!
That's all it was, wasn't it?
We see that now, just the same.

Your fulsome tears, shed as pricks
To those worried for you,
As planned.  Heartless bag of tricks,

A tapestry of lies and deceit
Thrown o'er trusting eyes
To blind, manipulate, to cheat,

As you sneer, daring to choose
How far to take this game.
Yet, in winning you lose.

All that breathless freedom gained,
Gone, now a master rides you
Choked, burdened beast enchained.

That delightful garden you knew
Is now a barren desert of
Distress, longing, bitter rue.

All those joyous ovations stand,
Now, embarrassed silence,
The clapping, your one hand.

Success was yours believed
In this wider world.
Now, failure, yours achieved.

But, hey!  Enjoy the Game.

© Jeff Stilwell 2012

Meeting That Audience

Just got the question.  (I suppose it was inevitable.)

What do I mean I'm writing a novel about special relativity?!

Okay, let's pause for a second.  All artists - whether we admit it or not - are entertainers.  If we're not entertainers who meet our audience where they are at, we will not be artists for very much longer.

That said, yes, I am most definitely studying relativity theory, both special and general.  After all, it is a lot to visualize.  How much will I use that in my new work?  We'll see.

I promise you this, though:  Only so much that it entertains.  And not one jot more.

Special Relationship

As I keep pondering special relativity to help my second novel (which is coming along well enough that I haven't been posting lately), I can't help but wonder at our seemingly insurmountable differences.

They appear, from a cosmic perspective, so insignificant.

Consider...

I'm standing in my kitchen sipping coffee and watching the neighboring squirrel play tag with a Stellar jay (ie a blue jay with a black head) for five minutes.  I appear not to be moving, right?

However, we all know that I am.  For the planet is rotating, west to east (making the sun appear to "rise" each morning).  That means that even though I haven't moved a step in the kitchen (their game of tag really is kind of fun to watch), I have moved five minutes along the direction of the earth's rotation.  As if someone had grabbed a marker and traced it out on the surface of a beach ball.

Then, too, during those same five minutes, the earth is revolving around the sun, counterclockwise.  So, it has gone its five minutes worth of travel.  That means I've been rotating as well as revolving without even realizing it.

The solar system, itself?  Yes, that, too, is slowly rotating, along with the sun, counter-clockwise.   (Why?  It's an artifact of how the solar system originally formed.  It's still going in the same direction as the earliest gases that spun off.)

And, of course, our solar system is orbiting around the entire Milky Way galaxy.  In fact, the guessing goes that the last time we were where we are now, in the galaxy, dinosaurs were roaming the planet and us, nary a twinkle in their eye.

(Begs the question, doesn't it?  Who will be roaming around the earth the next time we are at this same position in the galaxy?)

Beyond that, the entire Milky Way rotates as well.  Though, being rather flat, which direction - clockwise or counter - depends on which side you're looking at.  And, the galaxy, too, is moving...

All this said, with all this movement occurring in those same five minutes that I am sipping coffee (and most definitely not working on my novel), doesn't it make me feel small?  Sure does.

So small that I can't help but wonder at the differences that supposedly exist between us - those supposedly insurmountable ones between family, neighbors, colleagues, nations, even religions - that all too often separate us irreconcilably for a lifetime or more.

The differences seem so puny compared to all this movement.  Makes you wonder why we put so much effort into them.

But maybe that's just a matter of perspective...