It seemed like a good idea at the time. When I was first approached about being one of four contributing writers to a history of the first 125 years of the Indianapolis Museum of Art, I didn’t hesitate to sign on. After all, I’d already been one of three co-authors of The Herron Chronicle, a history of the Herron School of Art (released in 2002), and the author of For the Sake of Art, a history of the Indianapolis Art Center (released in 1999). And before resigning in April 2007, I had spent 10 years as the visual arts writer for The Indianapolis Star—covering the IMA had been one of my primary responsibilities.
Given my experience, I figured helping produce a book about a place I thought I knew pretty well would be easy—especially since in its first incarnation, it was going to consist of 125 vignettes about people, collections, events, and departments that had helped shape the museum’s history. Little did I know what was in store for us. Over the first few months, everything seemed to be going just fine—each writer was assigned topics to research and write about. Like chunks of firewood, the stories began to stack up.
Now, one thing I’ve learned over the years about researching books is to resist tangents, as much as possible. Research is a seductive pastime. In the course of tracking down the information you need, you’re apt to uncover some other information you don’t—letters written by someone who’s central to your research, but who’s writing about subjects that have little or nothing to do with your needs. But a well-written letter is like a drug: it pulls you in, lulls you into thinking you’ve uncovered something vitally interesting, then distracts you from your task at hand. And suddenly you’re off on a tangent—which may well lead you to another, then another… well, you see the drug correlation.
That’s what happened with the IMA project. Each of us involved got seduced by one topic or another, and we all began writing pieces much longer than they were supposed to be. That wasn’t necessarily bad, but it was going to make a book much longer than we had anticipated. By late 2007 it was clear that we needed to rethink the book’s organization: instead of 125 individual stories, we realized that what we needed to do was cover the IMA’s 125-year history chronologically, integrating much of the text we’d written already into a cohesive narrative. But by that time, two of the original writers had finished the work they’d contracted to do, so they left the project.
The remaining two of us then took on the task of weaving together much of the previously written material—and doing more research to fill in the gaps of the larger story we had chosen to tell. This time there was no time to get seduced by research. We had a book to get done, and not a lot of time left to do it. Well, you can guess how the story ends—with some adjustments to the design and production schedules and the help of two very fine editors, we got it done. It will be available in early October. It’s titled Every Way Possible. Watch for it.
Looking back at the moment when I signed on to the project, I have to smile. Did I really think it was going to be as easy as it sounded at the time? Of course not. But I didn’t think it would become as difficult as it did. Yet I’ve enjoyed the entire process. The pleasure of doing a book is that, no matter how much you think you know about the subject when you start, by the time you finish you’ve learned a lot more—not only about the subject, but about yourself. A book pushes and prods you to go beyond what you’ve done before, to develop new skills, to become better professionally and personally. This one certainly did.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. It still does.
July 15th, 2008 at 9:56 am
Skip…. I certainly hope that you will sign my copy! Congratulations.