A lie: three years ago I wrote a novel.
A truth: three years ago for National Novel Writing Month I wrote 50,000 words of something.
My small model triceratops skeleton was the spirit animal that guided me through. Many nights I’d shuffle home from my corporate job in San Francisco, huddle up in the cottage, set out The Trike next to the laptop, and write.
About 30,000 words in, The Trike became a character in the story. The story was a retelling of Orpheus & Eurydice. How did a triceratops skeleton become part of a Greek myth you ask? I just wrote him in. Kabam. A year later I would apply this same skill set to writing in more straight, white males as characters in my show at the behest of straight, white males. At the time, the show (without any conscious or politically-motivated effort) had no straight, white male characters. Something to remember the next time I question whether I’m living a life according to my values.
Last week I borrowed Becca‘s projector and traced the skeleton on the wall, filled it in with paint, and now here he lives. My cousin Melanie did something similar with a Hokusai wave. Creative Hero Shyama Golden did same with a baby mammoth.
To those who’ve heard about this project and asked, “why?” I’m curious what answer would be acceptable, given that our respective value systems are already so skew. To me, painting a triceratops on the wall is the reason to paint a triceratops on the wall. “Why?” presents a social cue that’s difficult to parse, given that neither the obvious, logical answer (“I guess she likes dinosaurs”) or the simplest, most intuitive answer (“I guess she wanted to”) satisfy. My mother was a triceratops. That’s why I painted one on my wall. There ☺
Now that he’s up in mauve-against-mauve, my apartment has a kindof Children’s Museum feel. Future murals in this mode will be value-against-value-against-value, so off-white-against-off’er-white-against-white.
Have been doing summa this in the apartment when I’m on my way out. Something you can know.