After hearing feedback from several people that The Oak Lovers is reserved, even quiet in tone, I have come to see my manuscript as the sketch before a painting. The lines are all there and I see the finished canvas clearly in my mind, much as my great-grandfather had before he reached for his brush. To borrow his words, “I know what I want and how to get it now.”
Writing, like painting, has become a sensual act. Messy and exhilarating.
I have become the woman in this photograph that my mother created for me. Carl and Madonna’s spirits are with me all the time. I don’t want to know just their story anymore. I want to feel Madonna’s jealousy as she watched Carl return home to his wife. I want to write it in a crimson splash across the page. Their reunion is a sunburst of yellow. Carl’s constant physical suffering outlines everything in black, but dabs of cobalt blue joy always shine through.
|Photo by Deborah Downes|
The words have never flowed so easily.