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The juggler

jugglingThe oth­er day I was walk­ing down a city street when I chanced upon a street per­former, a jug­gler. I have always enjoyed watch­ing jug­gling, and much admire the skill involved. (Read­ers may recall that Bear, in Crispin: the Cross of Lead, was a jug­gler.) 

As I watched the jug­gler, she start­ed with three red balls, added a cou­ple more balls of oth­er col­ors, and then brought in a club and a chi­na plate. As she went on, she changed the objects, bring­ing in new things, until as a grand cli­max, every­thing was whizzing through the air. Then she plucked them out of the sky one by one—holding on to them all somehow—and bowed. 

As I watched, it occurred to me that writ­ing a nov­el is rather akin to a jug­gling act. All those char­ac­ters, plot lines, phys­i­cal enti­ties whirling about, until it is all up the air—until the writer catch­es them all in series of deft catches.

As I watched, while the jug­gler smiled and seemed to be enjoy­ing her­self, she sweat­ed.  I could relate.

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