It’s strange but the more of these I do, the more I realize I don’t have an unfiltered self. At least, not when it comes to my writing. Every word is polished, every typo is corrected and the sentences fixed up.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I haven’t a clue about being unpolished with creativity. And it’s been said that art is not edited, but of course it is because otherwise how can you do something in detail? How can it be technically correct without edit?
What is art anyway? This makes me think of Duchamp, who put together ready-mades and called them art. Is it art because you say it is? “This bicycle is art, because I’ve brought it into this empty space of this art gallery.” Only it’s technology of a sort, and it’s a piece of something already made. Is everything art?
Is art even real, because I consider baking cupcakes to be a science and yet the decorating thereof is an art – and actually so is the baking because it’s a fine line when you put in flavour, to add enough or too much or not enough. So is there just the blend of science and art? This is where I’m thinking of mixing colours, creating something new, figuring out the ideal shade to express something. I’m reminded of a passage I read in a book, the girl spent ages mixing paint colours to replicate something she once saw. Just one little shade of orange or something and she wanted to have an ideal colour – so she used a sort of science, in a way. Trial and error, hypothesis, who knows.
I’m not even sure if I’m recycling old thoughts, or if I’m articulating myself. Co-Author tells me to not be so edit-happy but I like editing, just as I like organizing my wardrobe into colour-coded sections or fixing up my books into proper order.
Also eight days until NaNoWriMo, I haven’t started thinking about my own novel either. Is it acceptable to recycle a previous year’s attempt? I have 20,000 words of last year’s novel but stopped, and so I’m thinking of reconsidering the theme. Changing things, not the theme. That wasn’t the right word.
October 24 and I’ve already been hearing fireworks. Literal fireworks and each time it makes an angry bubble of righteousness well up even though I have no business getting self-righteous.
No, I won’t go down that path of irritation right now. I have too much else to do.