|Is it a bird? 11/28/2004|
I didn’t have a bird in mind when I made this one…This is an old pencil drawing in one of my sketchbooks…my drawings are more meditation than a study for something specific…I started doing them in a sketchbook that a friend gave to me for a present to fill with my doodles that I had been making on scraps of paper and post-it notes…these drawings were more mine than anything I ever made before. It was a special time for me creatively, I was following my bliss in both art and writing.
|Book cover, The Fractured Hues of White Light, copyright 2010|
From the back cover:
To this day I still laugh at my misinterpretation when the doctor diagnosed me as autistic—I thought he said "artistic"—so I laughed and cried out, "I draw just like my Daddy!" But no one laughed with me; my mother cried, my father became indignant, and the doctor defensive...Then my pencil went about the business of drawing—after all, I am artistic. But little picture's have ears—and my eyes didn't miss a thing, especially the emotions that sparkled in my mother's tear-filled eyes. My fixation with the emotional landscape of faces was always the quirky discrepancy of my being autistic—my drawings documented with intricate detail the people I loved best of all. The doctor thought this very unusual—puzzling, yet unique, he called me "special."
My artist/writer pieces of me overlap and separate…it’s a duality that I manage (I don’t struggle with it—I’d get nowhere like that.) To compartmentalize these two endeavors, I gave the writing projects a name, Laura J. W. Ryan. It’s me, they’re mine.
I love what I do…
I'm still poking along editing Drinking from the Fishbowl, it's going to take time and I'm glad to develop it in the way that I have envisioned it...I cannot stress enough the need for patience while writing a book. I've been wringing out words, cutting, replacing, rearranging, and tweaking for four years, so it's easy to feel overwhelmed and to let frustration whisper its insidious nothings in the back of my mind. I take these prickly demons as they come and shrug them off. Who's telling this here story, right? Looking back to the first chapter I'm stunned when I realize I haven't looked at it for over two years...so I get into this mental tizzy worrying about the consistency of my "voice"...what if the first sentence and the last sentence don't "meet" in the way that I intend them? I can't go back yet...I need to keep going forward. Set it aside or send it off to a trusted reader to assess it. Work on something else for awhile to "forget", and then go back.
Novels are so big...a drawing of meandering lines is so simple...it takes the edge off, changes my focus...so I can go back to writing with fresh-eyes...