I am in love with my pen and the words it writes. I write because I see. I write what I see, so I must love my eyes as well. I once thought of the well of inspiration as a body of water whose dam was never meant to hold it back. Rather, it is the discipline to control the flow lest it flood and be spent. Writers need more than imagination; they need life experience. Without knowing how life flows, and that one cannot merely dangle their toes in the stream, but swim in the current, imagination has no fuel to flourish. I write because I love people, I love history and I love language. The three are inseparable and no successful writing is accomplished without paying dues to all three. As long as I stay in the flow, the pen will stay in my hand.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010



Circle of the Sky by Richard Cheney [historic fiction]

A lonely, unknown and unseasoned sculptor, struggling for recognition, even from his own father, goes to live in the household of a generous and cultured patron. In the course of elevating his art, he struggles against the opportunity to develop a relationship with a young woman who competes for his favor while he pursues the favor of his art. She, though coincidentally in the same household, lives echelons above his station, a true debutante coming of age. The young woman, barely three years his junior, radiant beyond her age and the daughter of a duke, chanced a glimpse at the artist at work, covered in marble dust, working the marble that was submissive to his every stroke even though he is but a teenager of sixteen. She is thrilled. He, turning to her interruption, is smitten by her radiance. So begins an unlikely but often repeated tale of crossed stars. Those stars would, in time, turn full circle for them. The reluctant lovers, likewise, complete a circle of such circumference, it will occupy lifetimes to achieve. She was the lovely Contessina de' Medici and he was Michelangelo.

No comments:

Post a Comment