I stopped up short before grabbing the heavy black church door.
“Wow, that looks like hard work,” I said to the men bundled up on a sunny-yet-chilly late October day. As I zoomed in to drop something off at church–doing my normal, checking something off the list quick–I couldn’t help but stop and notice how these two men were lifting large piles of bricks and working on their hands and knees to slide them together into a intricate design.
Snapping a picture of the scene, I wasn’t quite sure why it intrigued me so much, this picture of two men doing cold physical labor to create something beautiful. Maybe it’s because my work is so much more covert. You don’t see the sweat running off me, or the bundled up fingers, or hear the grunt of me sliding a comma into just the right place. Writing is work, but of such a different sort. People come to the ready-made pieces and don’t see the process. There is a reason we call things like paintings and books and music “works” of art, they require effort. They require that the artist go through a sort of labor to birth this new thing into the world.
. . . I’m guest posting over at my friend Michelle’s blog today. Will you join me over there for the rest of the story?