I put on a playlist of low, dark indie music on Spotify, light the candle on the altar, and curl up on the couch with my tablet and stylus.
I won’t draw Dorian Gray. I can’t, even if I desperately want to.
But I can draw somebody fictional. Someone who looks as unlike him as possible.
Dorian has a lean dancer’s body, so this character will be massive.Burly. Packed with muscle.
Dorian has blond hair; this guy will have red hair. And he’ll have green eyes, not blue. Oh, and a beard, thick and red and curly. Heavy reddish brows. High cheekbones.
With the initial sketch complete, I start sculpting the muscles and the contours of the face. Layers upon digital layers, pouring from my mind through the stylus.
When I’m in the zone like this, it’s as if there’s a direct line from some primal, subconscious part of my brain straight to my fingers. There are conscious decisions, sure, but so many of them happen instinctively in the glimmering haze of the creative moment.
There’s always a risk, even when I’m creating character art, that I’ll pull someone’s actual likeness from my memory. That’s why I usually throw a few twists in there, avoiding my first instinct and going with my second choice about the nose, the shape of the eyes, the turn of the chin. I do everything possible to avoid what could potentially be an accurate memory of someone’s face.
But I can’t recall ever seeing anyone like the man I’m drawing now. So I let my instincts take over, and I lose myself in the sublime delight ofcreating. The rush is stronger than usual this time—more powerful, flooding my brain with ecstatic energy.
When the picture is done and I finally resurface, it’s after midnight. Almost one.
I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours, and I have to pee. Like, now.
Screwtape is curled at the end of the sofa, a cautious distance from me. When I get up, he lifts his head and blinks at me with judgy golden eyes.
“To hell with you, too,” I tell him.
He yawns.
Damn, why is that so cute?
I take a final look at the brawny, red-bearded man on the tablet. I drew him shirtless, and his bronze muscles practically glow. Strong legs are braced apart, ending in large boots. His green eyes hold a faintly manic light.
He’s glorious. Some of my best work ever, I think. And now that I’ve expelled the volatile masculine energy into this painting, now that I’ve paid homage to it as fiercely as I’m able, my soul can breathe again.
With a little squeak of satisfaction, I lay the tablet on the sofa and dance off to the bathroom.
When I come back, Screwtape is standing over the tablet, one paw lifted delicately.
The screen is still on, but my character is gone. In his place, there’s a new, blank page.
My stomach drops.
“Oh my god.” I scramble for the tablet, shooing Screwtape away. There’s nothing in my drafts, nothing saved anywhere, even though I know I saved the thing a few times. Nothing in my deleted files.
Nothing.
“You little shit.” My eyes are filling with tears. “What did you do?”
Screwtape considers me disdainfully, then hops off the sofa and trots away to his litter box.
My glorious satisfaction evaporates, leaving behind an uneasy sense of loss. It’s like having a ruined orgasm or thinking an exorcism succeeded only to realize that the demon is still clinging obstinately to the chest cavity of its victim.
I can’t say any of that aloud, not even to Screwtape, because itwould feel too dark. Too melodramatic. Too lonely. So I only whisper, “This has seriously been the worst day.”
5
Baz
That night, the dreams come back. Vivid, bloody, pulsing through my brain like a viscous poison. I wake up sweating, my cheeks wet, a hoarse scream caught in my throat.
