Art is a curious endeavor. I know what I like, and I know when I see/hear it. I can tell you that I think William Gibson’s “Pattern Recognition” is one of the most perfect books I’ve ever read, as is Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine”. I can tell you that the high point of Shawn Colvin’s “Sunny Came Home” is the transition into the line “Oh, light the sky and hold on tight”. I can tell you that the library scene in “Something Wicked This Way Comes”, wherein Jonathan Pryce tortures Jason Robards by tearing glowing pages from the symbolic book of his life, is one movie scene that will not leave me alone, even though I’ve not seen it in close to thirty years.
What I can’t tell you is, “Why?”
Oh, I can give pseudo-explanations, such as the imagery connecting with some aspect of my psyche in a remarkable way, but that again is only describing the effect, not the cause. What is it about that simple melodic transposition that connects with my psyche? What is it about watching an old man regretting his past that would connect so powerfully in the mind of my teenage self? Why would a story in which, largely, a person travels, sees things, and goes home, come to mean so much to me?
It’s the question that keeps armies of artists grinding away, trying to catch lightning in a jar, picking apart the works of their inspirations, hoping to discover that illusive formula.
I think perhaps that my one, true measure of having finally arrived as a writer will be if my readers discover a powerful connection with some aspect of my work, and yet find themselves at a loss to explain it. The funny thing is that, even if I manage that, I won’t know it happened until perhaps years afterward. Perhaps that’s what makes it so hard to define that secret ingredient. By the time you know you had it, you’ve forgotten the recipe.
Well, as Po’s dad … the goose, observed, there is no secret ingredient.
Unless you count the noodle dream.