Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Ideas?

I took for granted that creativity would always be a part of my life. No matter how academic, any class I took throughout college had some element of creativity. Even if it was simply stringing together a well crafted sentence for a conference paper.

But turning out endless emails begging strangers to volunteer on a farm tends to stifle creativity. Phone calls aren’t any better. You can’t even edit them. Coming home after work isn’t much better either. I feel burned out daily. Unwilling to create something new with my personal time.

So I’ve been falling back onto the work of others.

I’ve spent a great deal of time listlessly browsing through illustrations by Kay Nielson. I’ve pored over Arthur Rackham. Submerged myself in Ian Miller. I’ve even (much to Mim’s chagrin, I’m sure) re-familiarized myself with Michael Park’s lithograph worlds.

These are images that not too long ago inspired my animations. The characters are already alive; it was only too easy to peal them from their pages and nudge them into movement.

What I wouldn’t give to animate something right now.

Animation projects absorb everything. They’re a black hole of focus. Troubles fall away (unless they’re camera- or software-related). If you’re bleeding from a poorly wielded razor, just make sure you don’t get blood on your puppets. Whether you’ve eaten in the last three days becomes a minor thing. A thing which concerns your friends more than it does you.

Yes. Animation.

But, true to my earliest answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I still love writing above all else. (And yet I’ve never considered grad school for writing. How odd.)

This is evidenced, amongst other things, in my almost obsessive jealousy of Cornelia Funke.

I love the work of Kay Nielson, and I could stare at Ian Miller for hours. But I froth at the mouth when it comes to Inkheart.

I gave myself a rule years ago that, were there ever a movie-and-book pairing, I would start with whichever came first. Meaning I went out and got the Guardians of Ga’Hool when I saw the advertisement for the movie. (Not that great a read, but cute enough that I went for the second as well. Still haven’t seen the movie.)

But when Inkheart came out as a film, I never knew it had been taken from a book. I saw the film and truly loved it. The world is magnificently crafted. The characters are vivid. Old words fit together as if that’s where they were always meant to be. That’s how they were always meant to be used. Silvertongue. Dustfinger.

When I discovered that this had originated as a book, I went out immediately to buy and read it. And I was so disappointed.

The words I could feel as the framework for this film didn’t fit together as they should have as I read. Sentences were clumsy and stumbling. The images had less life than their ideas demanded. It was flat. Certainly this couldn’t be the home of such wonderful ideas!

And then I discovered that it was a translation.

Sorry, whoever translated Inkheart. My only option is to believe that you suck at what you do.

Of course, I don’t speak German, so I can’t confirm this, but I stand firm in my conviction that Cornelia Funke’s words must read like poetry in their original language. My heart would simply break if it weren’t true.

Above all else, whether or not her words are poetry, whether or not the images lie still instead of jumping alive with every turn of the page, I envy Cornelia Funke of Dustfinger.

Dustfinger is a character that comes along once in a lifetime. He’s a hideous anti-hero (slightly less hideous in the film due to being played by the gorgeous Paul Bettany) that readers are desperate to love. But he won’t let you. He’s despicable and made of cowardice and weakness. He’s so human that you want to avert your eyes so as not to see his shame. He’s fascinating.

Cornelia Funke didn’t back down when she was writing this character. He’s a fire juggler and magician. An entertainer. The very idea is so easy to love. And instead she contorts him and tortures him into something horrendous. And we love him and despise him because of it.

I’m sure part of my opinion of Dustfinger is crafted through Paul Bettany’s portrayal. Paul Bettany makes me think that a self-flagellating albino crafted by the likes of Dan Brown is pretty nifty. Paul Bettany can do anything. But it’s the grittier elements of Dustfinger’s character—the fire-juggling-distraction on Eleanore’s lawn or taking shelter in Basta’s compulsively clean home—that connect me most to this character. Elements that were left out of the movie.

I spend my time thinking one thought.

Why didn’t I create him?

I will probably spend the rest of my life trying to create a character I love as much as I love Dustfinger. That’s probably a bad way to think about it—if that were the case, I’d just end up creating half-shadows of him, empty shells of characters—but it’s that untouchable quality to the idea that created him which I will perpetually seek.

And so a new element of my life in Tennessee has begun. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired when I get home. Because creativity’s something I need back in my life. No more staring at Kay Nielson. No more wishing Dustfinger had been mine.

It’s time to write.