Your Invention is Part of You

He was sitting there trembling. His hands spread across the keyboard and his eyes were fixed on the screen of his laptop. It had not come to him until then that the story he had been writing for a whole month –which was going to be the first story that he committedly worked on and finished- should end in a way that was so much revealing about his personality. Realizing it, he started hesitantly scrolling up and down the pages and pausing to reread the lines that he felt might be similarly related to him. Turning page after page, his face turned pale and his eyes widened. It was not only his personality that he saw exposed in many of the lines of his story but also a lot of his most private thoughts and feelings. He surrendered himself to the back of his chair and buried his face in his hands. He could not believe what he had done. He could not believe that this story, which accompanied him in his dreams, which took much of his effort for a long time, and which was going to be read by all the people who continuously supported him, should transform into some kind of an undesired diary. He started thinking desperately about what was to be done.

Should he hide the story in some folder and forget about it?

Should he delete it all together?

Should he commit himself yet another month to write a new story from scratch?

If he did any of these, what would he tell his family and friends who were expecting it to finish soon? What would he tell the magazine director of his school who had promised to give him a page every week to publish parts of the story and who had been waiting recently for the first part?

The only other alternative which he could think of was to make changes in the plot and the main character. But he was sure that this was going to be an even graver mistake. He could not tolerate it. He had the belief that any changes to make would ruin the story. If he ever had the dream to become a writer in the future, he knew that this could not be the start of it. The rush of desperate thoughts exhausted him. He stood up, took his jacket, closed the door of his room and went out to get some fresh air.

Just as he stepped over the pavement, he caught a glimpse of a painter at the end of the street whom he saw more often sitting on a small wooden chair, surrounded by his painting, and immersed in a new work. Feeling lucky to find something that might divert his thoughts and relieve him for a while, he walked towards the painter and stopped beside him to look at him work. The paintings showed streets, avenues, neighborhoods, and portraits of men and women. But out of all, what mostly interested him was the painter himself in whom he found a piece of art that could be as well observed with admiration. He stared at the painter’s green eyes and white beard, at his red and brown clothes, and at his proud posture while painting. Gradually, he started to see similar patterns between the painter and his paintings. He could tell that the painter liked to make a beard like his own for the men painted, preferred the colors red and brown for the sky and the buildings, and had most of his characters stand, move, and sit in a self-confident manner. He imagined that if he took a few steps back and squinted his eyes at the corner of the street as a whole, the painter would become one with his paintings and it would be a fascinating spectacle to look at. Feeling an unusual urge to start a conversation with this admirable painter, yet unsure how to do it, he took up a painting and asked about its price.

“Whatever comes from your heart, young man,” the painter answered, still focusing on his painting.

“Can I ask why you make the men with beards?” he said.

The painter showed a tender smile and answered: “Those who know me tell me that, since my little daughter passed away in an unfortunate accident, I have made the men I painted with beards. She used to love playing with my beard. I have come to realize that I actually do think of this while I paint.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. He paused for a few moment and then continued to say: “But isn’t this something private to you? Aren’t you bothered with those who know you pointing at it and people asking about it?”

“You should know, young man,” the painter said, “that this is something an artist cannot help but do, nor can any person who is endowed with a skill and is passionate about it enough to create and produce. Once you decide to let your passion lead you, you become part of your invention and it becomes part of you. You will of course risk the exposure of some privacy in this. It would be better to say that the little details of your life will in a way or another show themselves into what you do and you wouldn’t be aware of it most of the time. But that is what will eventually make it special. That is what will eventually make you special. Speaking of this, I truly doubt if there is any painter who paints beards as beautifully as I do.” He paused for a minute and then asked: “Did I answer your question?”

“You did,” the young man said smiling. And having got his answer, he bought a portrait of one of the bearded men, thanked the painter, and hurried to his home with a new spirit. He went into his room, took up his laptop and shouted loudly: “Mom. Dad. I finished my story! Are you ready to listen to it?”