The Sculptor vs. The Writer by Jennifer Gooch Hummer

The blank page is my mortal enemy and I wish it not-well. I wish it would be defaced, in fact, by someone else before I get to it. When I most want to hurl my computer into the freezer forever, I do what I always do: lament on who has it worse, the sculptor or the writer. This question has built permanent lodgings in the valley of my mind.

This is why: They start at the same place, facing their nemesis alone. Even if there’s another breathing thing staring at it with them, they’re still alone. No one else can see the figure inside that hunk of marble, just like no one else can see the story hidden under that blank page.

But this is where their paths part. I would imagine that if you chisel something you didn’t mean to chisel, that indent is now a thing that you never wanted it to be, like a nostril. Which looks bad on a knee. So in this case, the writer has it easier. The delete button, even if you’re missing a finger, is pretty easy to press.

At the same time though, there’s this: A sculptor can sit back, put his sculptor feet up and gaze at its mid-life creation. A writer can’t gaze at his work. You can’t gaze while you’re reading. The minute you stop reading, you’re staring. And staring is not the same as gazing. I stare a lot. Often even. I may look fully engaged when I stare at my daughter delivering her latest soliloquy about why she should be allowed to do Activity A because everyone else is, but my brain is oatmeal. Gazing, on the other hand, has an element of productivity to it. The gazing sculptor will end up knowing where to chisel his next spot. A staring writer will end up with a sudden need to snack.

And then there are these points to consider: Both work alone. Neither can have acrylic nails. And each of them must avoid this question: “How was your day at work, honey?”

Sculptor: “I chiseled three times around the groin area. Seventeen around the eyeball.”

Writer: “I wrote the twenty-seven times. And it seventeen.”

Although I have no facts to support this idea, I would guess that writers and sculptors may have similar divorce rates.

Do you see now why the question of sculptor vs. writer has its own zip code in my brain?  Alas, the question remains unanswered once again.

Now I’m sorry, but I have to go get a snack.