Musings

I know more about gardening than I do writing, though still not enough. This is not surprising, considering that I’ve been a gardener for far longer than I’ve been a writer. Both are incredibly demanding art forms, at least they are in my world. I have shelves of books devoted to both subjects and spend uncounted hours in pursuit of essentially unattainable goals in both passions.

Why? Here’s my flawed explanation for justification of insane behavior. Though the labor is hard and success elusive, even the pursuit enriches my life in ways that only fellow dirt slaves and other struggling writers fully understand.

Beauty snares my eye and erases all conscience thought whether it’s in the form of art, dance, flowers, life, or prose. The experience is Zen-like, transporting, and enlightening all at the same time. As a consequence, I’ve become a beauty junkie.

I seek beauty relentlessly, needing a steady supply to keep my endorphins high. The pursuit has its own rewards. When creeping around the yard on my knees in pursuit of weeds or entering text to advance the current story or simply staring at a well-loved section of the garden I’m lost, tumbling into another finer realm of existence.

Ironically, stalking beauty is rarely successful. The magic only happens when I’m not trying. This kind of wondrous effect is elusive and surprise is always a factor. Thankfully, perfection in not a requirement. In art too careful, too polished, and too perfect results in an attractive, but always short of magnificent experience. On the other extreme, the primitive effort, which blares its lack of skill and craft sometimes, achieves flashes of brilliance while failing to enchant.

Considering the poor odds of achieving the desired object, I’ve decided the process of creation itself has to offer satisfaction. Because no matter how hard I work at it, the wonder stubbornly resists all my planning and efforts to call it forth reliably. The work itself is worthwhile. In fact, it is essential for success. Though the magic, when it happens, is spontaneous.

Speaking of magic, I’m reading Anna Campbell’s Untouched, falling deeper under her spell with each page. I immediately put in an order for Tempting The Courtesan, she’s that good.