Marionettes in a Masque

Posted on April 7, 2006 in Anxiety Originality & Creativity

The film Capote brought two issues to mind. First the matter of embellished writing. I lose my courage to be flamboyant. I have a very fine feeling for the dark, but am very fearful of the bright and gaudy. I thought I knew depression more than joy. What was true was that I festooned my manias with dark embroidery so that I did not make tropes. I did not see the joy of a spring that wafted and wavered in its intensity like a lost California Sister, which is a type of butterfly endemic to my mountains. I preferred to dig deep into allusion and nest my head among stones which were like the eggs of many species. I feared that people would laugh as my mother and brother jeered at my work. I could not keep a journal or a diary for fear of them.

The other matter in writing about real people: what will they think about me if I grab the features off their faces and rearrange them on new mask that fits the plot of the story. What about telling the truth to the people I investigate? I had reservations in former Yugo about what I did. First, the job was too much for me. I needed a research assistant. Second, I was disturbed by seeing people as properties in a perpetual theater set. Whose story was it? I found that if I was to be true to my writing, I had to cast ananomically-transmogrified dolls to serve as marionettes in my masque. I could not do that to friends, so I held back, became a mouthpiece for another, vaguer purpose that could please everyone. In the name of respect, I acted the part of a bad writer. Capote, too, had these doubts and I think the writing of In Cold Blood pinched and divided him like a loaf to be baked and served as a last meal.