The Sight

"An author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere." ~Gustave Flaubert

(Thank you, John)

Where are the seams that geniuses stitch, which none can see, yet all can feel? It seems the craftsman is at his best when his audience pays him no mind at all and focuses instead on the created thing.

When the silk threads are so fine none can see where they mesh...

When a glass figure is so smooth that your fingertips cannot trace where the limbs connect...

When flavors blend so well that upon first taste, you think not of what it was (the seperate ingredients combined), but what...it...is.
 
I struggle from the moment I wake to define what it is that makes writing truly excellent. I can conjure all the theories I want, apply all the right formulas and outlines, structure myself into an oblivion, but the cold, hard fact remains. The masterful is that which calls no overt attention to its master. It simply is, and that is enough.
 
It speaks. It breathes. And you do not notice. It doesn't jump about, bashing the reader with its profound thoughts, smattering them with its impressive vocabulary like an infant flinging baby food. It lives, and you do not even realize that it is living. You see, yet you hardly know how or why.
 
Tragically, many of us try to fix our writing by stitching over the seams, or adding patchwork, or even crimped lace. And the finished product is even more hideous than when we first started. All because we do not understand the truth.
 
The seams are meant to be unseen. The artist to be anonymous. The work made to speak on its own. For only then can the reader be blessed with the sight and the sound of magic.
 
 
Novel update: 45 days left. 20 (of 50) chapters with second draft edits inputted. Plus, a major development in villain/sub-plot that ties up the climax beautifully. Now only to actually write it...