What do you see?

What would it be like to look at all sides of a person at one time? To see them—really see them—for who they are in every intricate way? Maybe a little frightening? Maybe disturbing? Perhaps, we’d find ourselves in them.

 When our tour guide at our local art center pointed out that this Picasso displayed all sides of the face at once, I finally understood the painter who I had only seen from one perspective before. 

I wonder if we all have a little bit of each other made up in our whole. The same fears, rejections, perspectives, loves. Have you ever walked through a group of people, and at first glance you see complete opposite traits as you? Maybe the way they dress, or act, or speak? If we could see all sides of a person at once, maybe those differences would fade to the background of our likenesses? After all, each one of us is created in the image of God.

And as a fiction author it resonates with me greatly. I love plunging deep in my characters, and exploring every side of their perspectives, wants, needs. My goal is to give the reader a portrait where they can find themselves, to give them an avenue of empathy, and a trace of truth in the made-up world.

 Thank you, Mr. Picasso, for this visual. While some of the little girls in our group said it was weird, (and I thought the same at first), I now understand that, for myself, I need to try and remember that all of us have different sides—but in each of our God-given makeups, there is some of the same.

The Erratic Pulse of a Writer: A Splash of Joy, a Puddle of Loneliness

There's this strange storm when creating characters and writing them to life. Spending time with them on the page for hours on end and then realizing that soon, you will introduce them to the great big world.

Sometimes, after a good writing session, I feel this overwhelming burst within me. A sudden splash of joy at the work that I am doing. It's almost suffocating to think I've been given the chance to write stories. I am amazed by the dream come true...and the immense delight in spilling my heart into a page.

But then...as I continue, the splash is a memory and the once rippled surface of my over-joyed heart becomes a stagnant pool. My heart pulls away from the story and my eyes look around and my ears wash in quiet.

Writing is a lonely pursuit when our characters aren't enough company.

Is there anything more tormenting than the calling to create? I am in constant flux between the joy and the heartache of my task.

I know it will only increase as I read reviews--good, bad, ugly. The polarized emotion will only swell as I close one book and start the next.

But the thing is, there is nothing else I'd rather be doing.

And I think, that's the trap. The desire for story is impassioned by the joy of creating even amidst the loneliness of writing.

Do you spend time creating, only to crave community by the end of it?