I know the mood I intended when I started writing my latest novel attempt. I was reaching for a feeling of wallowing depression that encompasses the life of someone akin to Gilbert Grape (read the book – it’s phenomenal; or watch the movie – Depp and DiCaprio are marvelous). How it translated in the writing group – “Wow! This reads like a comedy how the supporting characters manipulate the main character’s life!” Not exactly a different view, but not exactly the one I had in mind. But when the gang said, “Brilliant!” I decided to trust their collective wisdom and write from that mindset.
It’s “accidental genius”, and it freaks me out a bit. I remember writing a story once about a woman who was a bit daft. One line in the book had her talking about a recipe she’d found in a magazine that was supposedly made by Elizabeth Taylor. The dish tasted like perfume. Honest to God, I never made the connection as I was writing. It was afterward, when the former writing group members pointed it out that I realized the connection between Liz and her new perfume. Oy.
It’s that I can’t control it, to be honest. I’m fine with intended genius, which in my world doesn’t appear all that often (at all). That’s something that’s labored over, thought out completely, and applied with skill and care. But this churned-up stuff that comes off as intended symbolism or framing makes me feel like seeking out a psychic, a psychologist, or an exorcist. Someone needs to explain to me how this happens.
Anyone else experience moments of accidental genius? Does it unsettle you, too? What do you make of something that has a deeper meaning than the one you intended or wrote? And whom should I see – psychic, shrink, or exorcist?
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