Antony Hare, P.I.
G. K. Chesterton
I worked on this what feels like a lifetime ago. Windows and my email records tell me it was only three years ago.
In 2007-2008 I started to get excited about adapting public domain prose (still am) and one afternoon in Toronto, while listening to the CBC, I heard about a strange writer named G. K. Chesterton who wrote a book with a title that sold me: The Man Who Was Thursday. Discovering known figures well into my thirties is something I'm accustomed to. My blind spot in literature and culture in general is gargantuan, but I'd prefer it this way than the other way around. This is why I like to talk about art: I know so little.
I abandoned the project (I once owned the domain whowasthursday.com to give some indication of my investment) because, well, there were other fish to fry. It was too big a project to take on out of the gate, and the novel itself wasn't the right fit, after careful consideration (cheers, PK). Still, I think the idea was inspired. I am very happy I have these instincts. I am quite happy to fail.
Many artists and writers I know have a hard time finishing things. This is because they all see the faults and aren't able to eliminate them all. Perfection is the enemy. I don't seem to have a problem with showing my obviously flawed work (look back and see how my line developed; my early work was often terrible), but I do start tenfold more things than I'll ever finish. This doesn't bother me in the slightest.
I remember feeling good about where things were headed at the point I saved out the above. I think it stands on its own (the text is the introduction to the novel), and so here it is.
My hard drives are filled with thousands and thousands of files like this. I'd need a year to just go through them all.
Ant.
G. K. Chesterton
I worked on this what feels like a lifetime ago. Windows and my email records tell me it was only three years ago.
In 2007-2008 I started to get excited about adapting public domain prose (still am) and one afternoon in Toronto, while listening to the CBC, I heard about a strange writer named G. K. Chesterton who wrote a book with a title that sold me: The Man Who Was Thursday. Discovering known figures well into my thirties is something I'm accustomed to. My blind spot in literature and culture in general is gargantuan, but I'd prefer it this way than the other way around. This is why I like to talk about art: I know so little.
I abandoned the project (I once owned the domain whowasthursday.com to give some indication of my investment) because, well, there were other fish to fry. It was too big a project to take on out of the gate, and the novel itself wasn't the right fit, after careful consideration (cheers, PK). Still, I think the idea was inspired. I am very happy I have these instincts. I am quite happy to fail.
Many artists and writers I know have a hard time finishing things. This is because they all see the faults and aren't able to eliminate them all. Perfection is the enemy. I don't seem to have a problem with showing my obviously flawed work (look back and see how my line developed; my early work was often terrible), but I do start tenfold more things than I'll ever finish. This doesn't bother me in the slightest.
I remember feeling good about where things were headed at the point I saved out the above. I think it stands on its own (the text is the introduction to the novel), and so here it is.
My hard drives are filled with thousands and thousands of files like this. I'd need a year to just go through them all.
Ant.