Georgia Scott's Blog
September 20, 2025
The Power of Art
La Boheme is my favorite opera. If you don't know it, imagine Friends, move it from New York to Paris, and make them all artists and poor. You laugh with them. You cry with them. You love them despite their flaws because they are human and essentially good. That's the strength of Puccini's opera. It's simple and relatable. Besides, there is the music. Sublime.
Great writing, or just good, deserves praise, especially in times of drought. The arts are my solace whether it's an opera off an album or sitcom from TV. They draw my emotion and lift my heart. They restore my own sense of humanity. And when I think more tears would be hard to shed and laughter quite impossible, they prove me wrong. That's the part that is the miracle. That is their strength. By listening, we grow. We become better and more. Joey gets things wrong and we love him all the same. Rodolfo loses Mimi and we ache for him.
Knowing what will happen doesn't dilute the end in great opera, a successful sitcom, or key moments in life. The impact, in fact, increases with each viewing because we know what lies ahead. Being there, we witness and we react. That's the power of art. To keep us coming back, they remind us what it is to be human. And sometimes we need that.
Great writing, or just good, deserves praise, especially in times of drought. The arts are my solace whether it's an opera off an album or sitcom from TV. They draw my emotion and lift my heart. They restore my own sense of humanity. And when I think more tears would be hard to shed and laughter quite impossible, they prove me wrong. That's the part that is the miracle. That is their strength. By listening, we grow. We become better and more. Joey gets things wrong and we love him all the same. Rodolfo loses Mimi and we ache for him.
Knowing what will happen doesn't dilute the end in great opera, a successful sitcom, or key moments in life. The impact, in fact, increases with each viewing because we know what lies ahead. Being there, we witness and we react. That's the power of art. To keep us coming back, they remind us what it is to be human. And sometimes we need that.
June 18, 2025
Season of Content
A city without a fountain is like a body without a pulse.
Gdansk has turned on its fountains. All winter, they were shut. The sound of them pulsing is punctuated by cries of delight as children divert the spray in water fights or take dares to jump in fully dressed.
In my family home back in Boston, one dining room wall had an oil painting of a fountain. My sister did it all in blues. Water pearled the naked body of a woman. She was at rest as our mother never was when the dining room table had both leaves and was set.
The turning on of a new fountain not long after the end of Communism in Poland was met with surprise. Bubbles, pink and shiny, floated up in the sky. Several boxes of laundry detergent poured into it overnight were the cause. Those responsible weren't teenagers but local fathers and neighbors of mine.
Gdansk has turned on its fountains. All winter, they were shut. The sound of them pulsing is punctuated by cries of delight as children divert the spray in water fights or take dares to jump in fully dressed.
In my family home back in Boston, one dining room wall had an oil painting of a fountain. My sister did it all in blues. Water pearled the naked body of a woman. She was at rest as our mother never was when the dining room table had both leaves and was set.
The turning on of a new fountain not long after the end of Communism in Poland was met with surprise. Bubbles, pink and shiny, floated up in the sky. Several boxes of laundry detergent poured into it overnight were the cause. Those responsible weren't teenagers but local fathers and neighbors of mine.
April 7, 2025
Cliches, a Cap, and Cobblestones
I just read a review that a friend wrote about a book. The friend felt cheated, robbed of their time after a weekend spent between its pages. The reason the book fell flat was a calorie bomb of cliches. Listening to just a few of them was damning. And made me think.
Real life is not cliched. It is surprising. Good or bad, it catches your breath whether it's a sunset, first sip of beer, or the baseball cap that blew off last June that suddenly returns, beaten and weathered after months of living rough. Putting it on wouldn't be nice. It needs a wash. You give it a try then have to give up. The hat had adventures in the wild. In winter, boar, deer, and wolves track those woods.
Yesterday, the wind was howling. Hail fell on our cobblestone street. The sound, like groceries dropping from a height, is something. I rushed to the windows to see. Spring. That's all it was. And more, I realized. Nothing is cliched about real life. Writers get real!
Real life is not cliched. It is surprising. Good or bad, it catches your breath whether it's a sunset, first sip of beer, or the baseball cap that blew off last June that suddenly returns, beaten and weathered after months of living rough. Putting it on wouldn't be nice. It needs a wash. You give it a try then have to give up. The hat had adventures in the wild. In winter, boar, deer, and wolves track those woods.
Yesterday, the wind was howling. Hail fell on our cobblestone street. The sound, like groceries dropping from a height, is something. I rushed to the windows to see. Spring. That's all it was. And more, I realized. Nothing is cliched about real life. Writers get real!
January 2, 2025
Sequinned Skies
Out for a walk in Gdansk, I find the trees are jewelled with melting snow. The streets glisten like mirrors. Light sequinned skies take my breath.
On the first working day of the new year, my steps aren't alone in being sure and quick. Everyone's stride speaks of fresh starts and optimism.
Wishing all of my readers a wonderful year ahead.
On the first working day of the new year, my steps aren't alone in being sure and quick. Everyone's stride speaks of fresh starts and optimism.
Wishing all of my readers a wonderful year ahead.
November 15, 2024
What is Greatness?
That is the question. Reading the classics demands that we ask it. Mere acceptance that a book is great is not enough. Every time I open a classic I do so with trepidation. What if I hate it? What if this isn't love? Going to a shelf with a classic and picking one is like dating. We agree. OK. Give this a try. There may be hope. Should be any way. Let's be optimists. Things could turn out fine, better even, and maybe wonderful. These pages could do it for me. Be the great one. The classic to end all classics. The life changer. Bring it on! I leap into the abyss of the unknown. I let the classic take me where it wants. It leads. I don't. All plans are its author's not mine. I am just the reader. I must put aside that I also write.
When I read, I must go along placidly where the classic does. It's not my job to choose the route or even the venue for our date. Yes, reading is that intimate to me. It is from the moment I see the cover like seeing my date come through the door. First impressions count. Then, what is said and done throughout the night. Now, some books like dates go on for longer than others. Classics especially can be long. Awkward moments. Dull bits. Confusion. All these can be part of the most wonderful nights. That is the same with reading classics. The greatest can be rough around the edges or go on for what seems forever. Melville and Tolstoy are wooers who take their time. They wear me down until my heart opens. Woolf feigns lack of interest. She will keep me awake after. Kundera will be offensive then make me laugh. Conrad will make me cry and want to hit him. Agee will tap into my childhood traumas. Flaubert will see through me like an x-ray and make me blush. Faulkner will make me run, then handing me a flower will win me back. Baldwin, dear Baldwin, I will want to hug. There are so many. My list could go on.
I won't read and tell more. That's between classics and me. One thing alone is true of them all. They don't follow rules. They break them. They scoff at boundaries. They dare themselves. And they reach for greatness. Every one of them is a Rocky.
When I read, I must go along placidly where the classic does. It's not my job to choose the route or even the venue for our date. Yes, reading is that intimate to me. It is from the moment I see the cover like seeing my date come through the door. First impressions count. Then, what is said and done throughout the night. Now, some books like dates go on for longer than others. Classics especially can be long. Awkward moments. Dull bits. Confusion. All these can be part of the most wonderful nights. That is the same with reading classics. The greatest can be rough around the edges or go on for what seems forever. Melville and Tolstoy are wooers who take their time. They wear me down until my heart opens. Woolf feigns lack of interest. She will keep me awake after. Kundera will be offensive then make me laugh. Conrad will make me cry and want to hit him. Agee will tap into my childhood traumas. Flaubert will see through me like an x-ray and make me blush. Faulkner will make me run, then handing me a flower will win me back. Baldwin, dear Baldwin, I will want to hug. There are so many. My list could go on.
I won't read and tell more. That's between classics and me. One thing alone is true of them all. They don't follow rules. They break them. They scoff at boundaries. They dare themselves. And they reach for greatness. Every one of them is a Rocky.
September 23, 2024
Two at Once
Reading two novels at once reminds me of eating chocolate covered cherries. The smooth creamy center is a shock compared with the thin exterior crumbling in my mouth. That's what this week's experience is looking like while I read Vladimir Nabokov's The Luzhin Defense (1930) and Berhard Schlink's Homecoming (2006). The first is the prize center. The second is a shell, nothing more. I'm not here to give a review, least of all on books I haven't finished. I just want to share the function of reading for a writer like myself.
I read the story just as anyone does. But I also read with an eye on the mechanics. My joy is when the story overtakes all my notice of the latter. I forget how I got there. I just thrill at where I am. Now, reading these two novels should be a fair race. Both were written in other languages - Nabokov's in Russian, Schlink's in German - which are translated into English. I don't know Michael Sammell who collaborated with Nabokov on his. I didn't notice that Michael Henry Heim translated Schlink's book. What Heim did with Milan Kundera's The Book of Laughter and Forgetting was equivalent to a castration of its power. Thankfully, Aaron Asher made another translation, from the French version, which Kundera preferred. "I had the pleasure of seeing my text emerge in his translation as from a miraculous bath," Kundera said. "At last I recognized my book." I do not know what Schlink thought of Heim's translation of Homecoming. All I know is that its flatness of tone and lack of vigor makes reading an effort. Nabokov's writing could not be more different. It is charged as a lit line on a pack of dynamite.
In fairness, I've not completed either book yet. When I do, I might change my view. For now though Nabokov's is seamless. Schlink's is not. I can see too well what Schlink is doing. The seams gape with the effort as he tries to link his story with The Odyssey. It's smart of course. But I don't want that. I want a writer who trusts his story enough to let it ride. Then, I'll jump on and hold on tight as if it were a Harley.
I read the story just as anyone does. But I also read with an eye on the mechanics. My joy is when the story overtakes all my notice of the latter. I forget how I got there. I just thrill at where I am. Now, reading these two novels should be a fair race. Both were written in other languages - Nabokov's in Russian, Schlink's in German - which are translated into English. I don't know Michael Sammell who collaborated with Nabokov on his. I didn't notice that Michael Henry Heim translated Schlink's book. What Heim did with Milan Kundera's The Book of Laughter and Forgetting was equivalent to a castration of its power. Thankfully, Aaron Asher made another translation, from the French version, which Kundera preferred. "I had the pleasure of seeing my text emerge in his translation as from a miraculous bath," Kundera said. "At last I recognized my book." I do not know what Schlink thought of Heim's translation of Homecoming. All I know is that its flatness of tone and lack of vigor makes reading an effort. Nabokov's writing could not be more different. It is charged as a lit line on a pack of dynamite.
In fairness, I've not completed either book yet. When I do, I might change my view. For now though Nabokov's is seamless. Schlink's is not. I can see too well what Schlink is doing. The seams gape with the effort as he tries to link his story with The Odyssey. It's smart of course. But I don't want that. I want a writer who trusts his story enough to let it ride. Then, I'll jump on and hold on tight as if it were a Harley.
August 9, 2024
What Makes a Classic?
That's what I've been asking myself lately. There may be as many answers as there are readers but this is what it comes down to for me.
Words that seer my heart
Characters who never depart
A story that moves me
When I read and when I write, these three are what I hope to find. When I do, I know it is a classic as sure as my fingers know they are part of my hand.
Words that seer my heart
Characters who never depart
A story that moves me
When I read and when I write, these three are what I hope to find. When I do, I know it is a classic as sure as my fingers know they are part of my hand.
June 6, 2024
For the Month of June
Here are three excerpts from the poem sequence "The Girls from Galilee" from my book The Penny Bride:
II. Sleep Over
Her arms seagrass my arms.
My hands starfish her hands.
Our clams wink unladylike.
Anemones are all we wear.
III. Truth
Her brows knit.
Her lips part.
So modest, I thought.
"Those were coral reefs.
That was whale song," she sighed.
"What do you make when you come?"
IV. Dare
"I'll touch yours. You'll touch mine."
She gathered up my pebbles.
Then, sandbars raised, she showed the way
women walk over water.
II. Sleep Over
Her arms seagrass my arms.
My hands starfish her hands.
Our clams wink unladylike.
Anemones are all we wear.
III. Truth
Her brows knit.
Her lips part.
So modest, I thought.
"Those were coral reefs.
That was whale song," she sighed.
"What do you make when you come?"
IV. Dare
"I'll touch yours. You'll touch mine."
She gathered up my pebbles.
Then, sandbars raised, she showed the way
women walk over water.
May 19, 2024
Feeding Time
It's 4 am. That hour again. No use thinking I can sleep. Writers know. Muses won't calm themselves. They get louder and more persistent. So, I am up.
I go through the house. Knowing the way by heart helps. Night velvets the edge of most things. I wait to put on a lamp only when I must. I try to fool myself into thinking it's all a dream.
Sleep is a foreign country that I hope to visit soon. But for now, there is work to do. In my favorite chair, I sit down. The muse feeds. My pens flow.
I go through the house. Knowing the way by heart helps. Night velvets the edge of most things. I wait to put on a lamp only when I must. I try to fool myself into thinking it's all a dream.
Sleep is a foreign country that I hope to visit soon. But for now, there is work to do. In my favorite chair, I sit down. The muse feeds. My pens flow.
February 3, 2024
Winter of Content
I have a new view. Out my window, I can see what in summer was hidden to me. I don't mean the forests or the hill, the church spire or clock, or the road that rumbles beneath the wheels of taxis dropping neighbors off after late nights out. The view that I mean is what we hide from ourselves. It is the uncharted river way when we plan something else. It comes not when leaves fall but us. A broken arm. A lucky break, I am told given what could have been. But to a writer, an arm is more than bones and tendons. It releases the songs within. Think of a summer's day where there is water. The boat can go out. The skies are clear. You pull on your clothes and set out. Then, you find there is no pier.
So, I've been on the shore staring out at my boat. That unfinished novel has had to wait. At least, I could read. And read, I did for two months. Off the shelves at home (as I couldn't go out) here is my list of "light" books - those that one hand could steer me on adventures.
Brideshead Revisited (Waugh)
Remains of the Day (Ishiguro)
Red Platoon (Romesha)
A Quiet Man (Isherwood)
The Prodigy (Hesse)
The Patriots (Barlow)
Glory (Nabokov)
Claudine and Annie (Colette)
Clauding Married (Colette)
The Heart of the Matter (Greene)
The Sound and the Fury (Faukner)
At Home (Plomer)
The Honorary Consul (Greene)
Light in August (Faulkner)
To the Lighthouse (Woolf)
The Razor's Edge (Maugham)
Heart of Darkness (Conrad)
A Death in the Family (Agee)
The Human Factor (Greene)
Impatience of the Heart (Zweig)
The Explorer ( Maugham)
Billy Budd (Melville)
Reviews to come.
So, I've been on the shore staring out at my boat. That unfinished novel has had to wait. At least, I could read. And read, I did for two months. Off the shelves at home (as I couldn't go out) here is my list of "light" books - those that one hand could steer me on adventures.
Brideshead Revisited (Waugh)
Remains of the Day (Ishiguro)
Red Platoon (Romesha)
A Quiet Man (Isherwood)
The Prodigy (Hesse)
The Patriots (Barlow)
Glory (Nabokov)
Claudine and Annie (Colette)
Clauding Married (Colette)
The Heart of the Matter (Greene)
The Sound and the Fury (Faukner)
At Home (Plomer)
The Honorary Consul (Greene)
Light in August (Faulkner)
To the Lighthouse (Woolf)
The Razor's Edge (Maugham)
Heart of Darkness (Conrad)
A Death in the Family (Agee)
The Human Factor (Greene)
Impatience of the Heart (Zweig)
The Explorer ( Maugham)
Billy Budd (Melville)
Reviews to come.
