A Fantastical Take on the Creative Self by Julie Poole

In honor of this week’s Page by Page event on the Art of Submitting Work, I slapped together a creative piece about my artistic alter ego, who I imagine as a large, grouchy, chip-loving Ogre. The category-defying and fabulously talented Taisia Kitaiskaia let me use some of her illustrations. You can find her books Literary Witches: A Celebration of Magical Women Writers and Ask Baba Yaga: Otherworldly Advice for Everyday Troubles on our local and bestseller shelves right now.


My Ogre-self is angry, rejection is getting under his leathery skin, he wants nothing more than to stay at home, eat BBQ chips in front of the TV, and waste his precious energy in fitful states of napping. He is deeply afraid to have hope for his future so he’s decided everything is just too hard; he refuses to see that there are multiple steps involved in any creative project and jumps straight to the conclusion that it’s impossible. He swats at the air, “impossible,” he says.

Each day he goes to work in his studio, pounding a hammer on a flat piece of wood. When he holds up his creation and sees that it’s still a flat piece of wood, he becomes upset and hurls it to the floor. Losing a grip on his vision, he’s blinded by self-torture. He sinks back into life-hating, counts his dirty dimes and nickels, which are barely enough for bus fare. He gets no pleasure from the small items that he does manage to buy—bread, butter, and BBQ chips—which he eats so quickly and without appreciation that he’s surprised when he looks down at his plate and sees only crumbs.

On the rare occasions that he does go outside, journeying to the store or post office, the rise of hopeful feelings tortures him. He’s pitied by nature and nature loves him; the birds, butterflies, and squirrels accost him, using their playful antics to try to make him smile or laugh even, but he chooses to ignore them and lives in a perpetual winter.

An Ogre, of course, is bound to run into a Faerie from time to time, and he is excruciatingly annoyed when they talk about what projects they’re working on (they’re always working on several things at once). He’s jealous; Faeries always spring to work quickly, they figure out what skills they have and what skills they need, and then they go about scheming, plotting, and planning their own greatness. They are confident in their artistic futures, in whatever shape that blossoming might take. The Ogre, on the other hand, believes deep in his huffy nature that he is practical, that Faeries live on another planet, they are delusional and are at risk of getting trapped and squashed like bugs because they wear their hopes and dreams on their gossamer sleeves. They are dreamers, and he doesn’t particularly like dreamers.

Trolls, he considers less of a threat. Trolls have large egos and surprisingly large social media followings, but anyone with an ounce of interest in art can see that they don’t really know what they’re doing. They peddle their wares and sometimes succeed but overall nothing they make lasts. Elves, he doesn’t mind much either, they are consummate freelancers; they’ll take on pretty much any assignment and do so without much in the way of individual flare.

When the Ogre does manage to put his work out there, he’s already expecting the worst. He presents his flat pieces of pounded wood and is crushed when people don’t seem impressed. The Ogre is an eternally wounded creature, and validates his own defeat again and again, by saying, “O me, O my, why try.” He goes back to his TV and potato chips, he sinks deeper into despair; he even spells it “dis-pair” adding an “i” for an extra “dis” to make himself feel even worse. It’s clear that Ogres are not blessed with the optimistic outlook of Faeries, the ego of Trolls, or the motivation of Elves.

Is it hopeless for the Ogre? It is not! Within each Ogre is an incredible amount of creative vision—their projects are typically large in scale and can take many years to complete. When the Ogre’s self-pity abates, in certain early hours, he jots down notes, makes drawings, etc. Soon he begins to rise with the sound of the birds and before long he has himself a routine. He turns on his desk lamp and little by little makes order out of chaos, for just as long as his self-critic shuts up. He hears a very faint voice that says “keep going.” Make no mistake though, he’s still miserable, but for short spans of time that misery escapes his focus. This brief respite from grumbling does him a world of good, and slowly his creation will begin to take on a pleasant aura.

With time, the Ogre will begin to see the pieces of his vision slide together like dovetail wood joints. The Ogre’s disposition changes. In fact, he even makes friends with Faeries and values their encouragement and energy! They seem to exhibit a blind faith in him. When he speaks about his project, they don’t laugh. Their encouragement provokes him to work harder. Soon his creation becomes more important to him than his habit of negativity—his creation begins to glow, yes glow. As he works, it begins to emit a beautiful humming sound—it starts to come alive. He blows off the remaining wood chips, dusts and polishes it until its magnificence is more magnificent than he could have ever imagined. Did this creation really come from him? It did! With a calm and collected mind, and a bit of bodily exhaustion, he unveils his creation to the public to great acclaim. He has a very difficult time absorbing the nice things people have to say so he stays quiet. His identity as a creator feels more solid now, like wood. He’s worn a path so that his next creation will follow a similar pattern, the lows will still plague him, but they will be expected and not feared this time. In the future, his creations will look back at him with love and thankfulness, he’ll smile at them and nod.

Staff Picks: Between Clay and Dust

Celia recommends Between Clay and Dust by Musharraf Ali Farooqi:

Between Clay and Dust is many things—a twilight romance, a coming of age story told from a distance, an elegy for a lost world. Set in Pakistan just after the partition of India and the end of the British colonial regime, the novel follows Ustad Ramzi, the head of a renowned wrestling family, and Gohar Jan, a once celebrated courtesan who finds herself increasingly alienated from her community. The two share a quiet, unconsummated romance, for Ustad Ramzi has taken a vow of celibacy, and Gohar Jan has sworn never to devote herself to one man. While their relationship provides the story’s framework, the novel expands outwards, asking what kind of legacy this pair can leave in a society undergoing changes that may leave each of their professions unrecognizable. The effect is of watching a story unfurl through a telescope: every detail stands out clear and visible, and yet you have the feeling that the things you are seeing are already lost, and if you reach out to touch them you’ll find only air.

I love Farooqi’s simple and precise prose, which rarely flaunts its presence, but dwells lovingly on details. A wrestler training for an important fight wakes up in the morning and drinks “milk in which the flowers of blue lotus and barberries, sandalwood powder, dry endive, myrobalan, and green cardamoms had been soaked,” does a grueling exercise regimen, and then rests and eats “a kilo of rabri…one and a half kilos of roast meat…a preparation of gold foil, pearls, and green cardamom in butter,” and, in cold weather, “a soup made from five chickens.” The novel describes the emotional lives of its characters with the same precise simplicity. Gohar Jan, hurt by Ustad Ramzi’s reticence towards her, reflects that “the graciousness that allowed people to accept and grant small kindnesses had no place in Ustad Ramzi’s heart. For the first time, it also occurred to her that it gave him a certain privilege in his relationships: he could neither be dismissed as a stranger nor held to any commitment to anyone.”

While Ustad Ramzi and Gohar Jan are both childless, each has an heir, and much of the novel is devoted to exploring what their legacy will be. Ustad Ramzi has a troubled relationship with Tamami, his much-younger brother. Tamami should by rights be the heir to the wrestling clan, but his rocky relationship with Ustad Ramzi keeps him from taking up his brother’s mantle. Ustad Ramzi is strict with himself and others, while Tamami is both wildly ambitious and painfully sensitive. As much as they both want the same thing—to reconcile and preserve their family’s legacy—neither knows how to accommodate the other’s feelings. Gohar Jan, meanwhile, has an adopted daughter, named Malka, who loves her dearly—but as the courtesan’s patrons die, lose their wealth, or abandon her, Gohar Jan decides that she cannot let Malka pursue the life that she herself has led, and resolves to send her away to a different kind of future.

There is no exact answer to what the future can hold, only questions. Malka passes out of the novel and into a new life, which Farooqi’s readers do not get to see. As for the rest—it is a story of how things end.