Sappho is counted as one of the greatest poets of Antiquity, often named “The Tenth Muse” or “The Poetess”. Historically, the “lesbian” term originates from the name of the island of Lesbos, Sappho’s birthplace. A more in-depth description of what sapphic means nowadays can be found on the lgbtqia.fandom.com website.
Sappho wrote thousands of verses, but only about 650 lines have survived. Perhaps the Catholic Church disapproved of her poetry (there are claims that Sappho’s works were burned on the orders of Pope Gregory VII). Or maybe the dialect in which Sappho wrote was no longer considered fashionable, and the demand for her poetry was insufficient to warrant further transcriptions.
A quick look on Amazon (or books about Sappho sorted by apparition date) reveals that Sappho’s works are more celebrated than ever, with new books dedicated to her appearing every year. This fact is even more extraordinary when we consider that what survives of Sappho’s poetry are snippets, and only a few poems, out of presumably nine volumes, are intact.
Anne Carson, translator for If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, remarks on the intensity of trying to approach surviving Sappho’s verses and adding brackets to her translated lyrics:
“I emphasize the distinction between brackets and no brackets because it will affect your reading experience, if you will allow it. Brackets are exciting. Even though you are approaching Sappho in translation, that is no reason you should miss the drama of trying to read a papyrus torn in half or riddled with holes or smaller than a postage stamp–brackets imply a free space of imaginal adventure.”
So, imagine how genuinely extraordinary Sappho’s complete works must have been that even if only fragments survive her work, there is still so much fire and elegance left.
“May I write words more naked than flesh,
stronger than bone, more resilient than
sinew, sensitive than nerve.”
Sappho
Sappho’s works are a beautiful lesson to pour our thoughts with such a drive that
“someone will remember us
I say
even in another time”
Sappho
Architects and Gardeners
I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners,” he [George RR Martin] said. “The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they’re going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there’s going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’s going to have, they find out as it grows. And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.”
Architects tend to outline the aspects of their stories before writing words: fleshing out the plot, settings and the characters with their motivations and backstories, complimenting foreshadowing by carrying seeds from one narrative thread to another.
Gardening holds almost an improvisational aspect: take some ideas, mix them, and see what we can discover along the way. One of the best aspects of gardening writing is that creating by doing is one of the most efficient anti-procrastination mechanisms. We don’t wait for the ideal story to come, but we start writing, assembling, tinkering, destroying, editing, redoing, and seeing how the story evolves.
Perhaps writers identify more closely with fusions of these styles. Writer Brandon Sanderson says that he uses a fluid approach: magic systems and plots are usually architected, while characters are more gardened (or discovery writing, as he calls it).
I’m (usually) an architect. I’ve found that the best way to get the kinds of endings I like. I have to know where I’m going before I start.
That said, an outline has to be a living thing of its own. I need the flexibility to knock out entire sections of it and rebuild them; I do that frequently. I have to be able to respond to what I’m passionate about in the world, as you mention.
Architects and gardening don’t need to apply only to writing. In the documentary film, The Mystery of Picasso (which can be rented on streaming platforms), director Henri-George Clouzot shows us Picasso’s painting process. The first few minutes are fascinating: Picasso’s style is spontaneous. Shapes combust from one to another, and splashes of colour melt into the abyss of the canvas. Picasso is gardening, experimenting with no preconceptions.
When I started writing this article, the outline was firmly made, and I knew what I wanted to say and how the end this article. Then, while researching to get more perspectives about gardening and architecting, I didn’t expect to discover a Picasso documentary, stop everything I was doing and watch it.
What better way to end an article about architects and gardeners, not with my architected phrase but using the last few sentences from The Mystery of Picasso, where gardening discovery leads to architecting future projects?
Picasso: This [a painting collage] is going wrong. It’s going really wrong. You are worried. You shouldn’t be, because this could end in worse ways… Why the long face? You wanted drama, you got it.
Clouzot: But not at the end of the film.
Picasso: Why not?
Clouzot: For the audience.
Picasso: I’ve never worried about the audience, and I’m not about to start now, at my age.
After some time:
Picasso: It’s getting better.
Clouzot: At least, it is a painting.
Picasso: Now that I know where I am going, I’ll get a new canvas and start over.