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lovingly made
Aug. 7th, 2022 05:38 pmToday I gave up on reading a novel [something I am more willing to allow myself to do nowadays than when I was younger].
It's very short, more technically a novella — about 120 pages — and I got about halfway through it before deciding I'd had enough. The author is, as it happens, a very well known showbiz personality, whose work on screen I have always enjoyed immensely. And, when seeing him on talk shows, I always found his “real life self” to be warm and engaging, although in a quiet way. I guess I was expecting to find his writing to be similarly warm and engaging, and ended up disappointed in that regard.
All along, I was thinking about why this story wasn't connecting with me, and finally I think I figured it out. This guy's writing, at least in this book, is so cold and aloof and disconnected, I got an undercurrent from it that “I don't really care about any of these characters or what happens to them, none of it interests me, so I have no idea why any of it might interest you.”
This is the first time I can recall being consciously aware of this: part of what I respond to in any creator's work is the love with which they made it. It can be a story, or a painting, or a musical composition, or a blanket — anything, really. But, on some level, I get a sense that the artist was emotionally engaged with their work. “I like this, it means something to me, and if I'm lucky it will mean something to you, too.” I never realized before that I somehow pick up on this unspoken sense of the creator's love, and that this enhances my own appreciation and enjoyment of what they have made.
This may all well be nothing more than my imagination — but, for me, it's a real thing to be taken into consideration. And it reminds me to care about my own work.
It's very short, more technically a novella — about 120 pages — and I got about halfway through it before deciding I'd had enough. The author is, as it happens, a very well known showbiz personality, whose work on screen I have always enjoyed immensely. And, when seeing him on talk shows, I always found his “real life self” to be warm and engaging, although in a quiet way. I guess I was expecting to find his writing to be similarly warm and engaging, and ended up disappointed in that regard.
All along, I was thinking about why this story wasn't connecting with me, and finally I think I figured it out. This guy's writing, at least in this book, is so cold and aloof and disconnected, I got an undercurrent from it that “I don't really care about any of these characters or what happens to them, none of it interests me, so I have no idea why any of it might interest you.”
This is the first time I can recall being consciously aware of this: part of what I respond to in any creator's work is the love with which they made it. It can be a story, or a painting, or a musical composition, or a blanket — anything, really. But, on some level, I get a sense that the artist was emotionally engaged with their work. “I like this, it means something to me, and if I'm lucky it will mean something to you, too.” I never realized before that I somehow pick up on this unspoken sense of the creator's love, and that this enhances my own appreciation and enjoyment of what they have made.
This may all well be nothing more than my imagination — but, for me, it's a real thing to be taken into consideration. And it reminds me to care about my own work.
