I remember a school trip I went on when I was around 14. It was at a renown art museum in my birth town Gothenburg. A tour guide showed us around and before telling us more about the different artworks she would ask what we thought about it. What did we think it meant? Did it have a message and if so, what was it?
There was one painting in particular that intrigued me. In it was a man working on the statue of a woman. But the statue seemed to have come to life and was touching the sculptor’s arm.
The tour guide asked if we thought there was some sort of symbolism in that. Since opening my mouth back then was often an excuse for the other kids to mock my accent and speech impediment, I didn’t say anything. I also assumed someone would say what I thought was obvious. But no one said anything like it. Their interpretations varied from “it hurts and she’s telling him to stop” to “she’s in love with her creator and she’s flirting with him.”
I don’t know why I wanted so to point out what I believed the painting meant but I did it anyway. I raised my hand and said something like: “I think it’s symbolic of the creative process. With her hand, the statue guides him. When you make art sometimes it feels like that. Like it wants to exist and shows you how to bring it into existence.”
The other kids looked at me like I was insane and I immediately regretted not keeping my mouth shut. But the image on that painting really stuck with me. In the last week or so I have thought about it a lot.
I am now almost done writing the second part of my Sorcerer’s Sword series. I have the ending of the story laid out and just have to write it down. For now I’m mostly writing by hand because it helps my thoughts flow and also because my laptop is still in repairs. But when I get it back it will not be too long before I’ll be able to publish my new book.
In a sense it feels like the story has already revealed itself to me and I just need to make it come to life. It has been an interesting journey and often it felt like I was walking through a labyrinth, trying to map it all out with nothing but a faintly glowing light guiding me.
Of course I know rationally that the story was never something outside of myself. It was never a conscious, mystical thing whispering itself into my ear. It just feels that way.
Whenever I write fiction it seems after a while that it takes on a life on its on. Most often than not it turns out into something quite different from what I originally thought it would. When I was younger that used to annoy me. I wanted to have more control over my own creations. But whenever I tried to it made the resulting story less genuine, almost mechanical. So eventually I stopped fighting it and I let the art become what it becomes.
In a way it makes things more interesting. Now writing a piece of work feels more like going on a journey and I can never be entirely sure where it will take me. Hopefully my readers will find reading my book as exciting as it was for me to write it.