As with novels I have written, she’s more than the sum of her parts. I know, because I made her–with my oils and brush, painted each strip of yarn, brightened her eyes with light, her puppet smile on white rendered just so…
She knows some things you couldn’t know. About herself. About her maker.
Novels, often sewn from naught and each, a tiny seed of thought adrift until, by chance, a writer plucks it from the ether, makes it hers, renders it real . . .
But to what end? Unsold, said novel hides in hollow walls of shame and doubt, unseen by others, not allowed to speak…
And yet, it has a voice. It says,
What matters most lies in my rendering. My mere existence proves that YES, my writer’s efforts (and her failures, which she views as weak), have made me quite unique; and lessons inked in blood and sweat are lessons she will not forget.
Sometimes in writing, as in art, the value’s in the making.