IT'S BEEN A WEEK SINCE I LAST POSTED, which is unusual for Suzenyms. On average, I usually post about twice a week. Other things have demanded my attention. My mother's radiation treatments wrapped up with some good news. She is now breathing easier; we have hope. My eldest son and my daughter-in-law moved into their condo, so I've been turning their old room back into a guest room. I've run myself off my feet cleaning the house, steam-cleaning the rugs, scrubbing walls, etc. I thought about painting the guest room and decided against it (a wise choice). In spite of the busyness, like anyone, there is only so much effort I can make to avoid my interior landscape. Because of concerns about my mother and my recent thoughts on life and death, I've found myself feeling low, and at other times, sad.
This morning, I got back to working on The Tattooed Rose.
There is nothing like writing to lift me from my funk or to bring me happiness. It isn't the idea of finishing, of ushering a new novel into the world, although that is satisfying. It isn't the wish for appreciation by readers or recognition by my peers. It isn't even any far-flung hope for more money coming my way (although more money would be nice). No, it's just the simple (and complicated) act of creating a world and the characters within it, of bringing them to life through prose in the best way I know possible. For me, it's that basic, it's what brings me the most joy.
Do singers love the moment of singing, even when there is no audience? Do actors love acting, when there is no crowd?
If you are a true artist of any stripe, you already know the answer to that.