I recently convinced myself that Mill Road needed a third module with an industry. So, the week before Christmas I went to the big box store and bought two sheets of foam board and a sheet of quarter-inch plywood.

In thinking about how to fit the new with the old, the brain was firing on all cylinders for once. In the course of an hour or so, I filled six pages with notes and sketches that seemed to resolve any and all issues and conflicts I’d felt previously. I was jazzed with enthusiasm and ready to make foam and saw dust.

Until…

I separated the existing sections and moved them a few feet down the wall to make room for the new one. The grand scheme fell apart immediately as I hated (the right word) what I saw.

I’m not a rookie at this stuff. I can visualize how things will look before they’re built. I also know that the beginning stages of a project are deceptive with all the chaos and disruption that happens. I understand that things will look ugly for a time until the new work has a chance to establish itself and I adjust to the changes personally.

This feeling was different though. It was visceral; down in the bones that I was making a mistake that would destroy an essential quality in this scene that I dearly enjoy. I realized I’d fabricated an imaginary reality in my head that chaffed against the literal reality in mocking up the new design. So, I stopped, put things back in place and felt relieved and content that it was the right decision.

For me, it was the right decision and for the rest of this post, I‘d like to unpack some thoughts about our expectations toward this craft.

This Idea of More
The idea that we never have enough of anything to really do what we want is pervasive in our thinking and literature. I’ve lost count of the times the author of a magazine article or online post expresses their desire for just a little more space, track, operation, or whatever. Then, they’d be content. The sun would shine, unicorns would come out to play and life will be golden; until, the desire for more sets in again, which it always does, eventually.

Whether we fear missing out on something good or buy into another’s ideals of what the craft should be instead of clarifying what we truly want, it’s hard to ignore the unspoken cultural influence that says a simple composition like Mill Road will never satisfy more than five minutes, if that long. For many people Mill Road will never make for a satisfying experience of railroading in miniature.

Believe me when I say that the influence conventional design thinking exerts is something I still deal with. I’ve entertained multiple schemes to expand Mill Road only to see how the work would suffer as a result. Trusting your own thinking over conventional “wisdom” is hard.

What’s Really Going On?
What was the desire to expand Mill Road really about? Reflecting back I want to experiment with different construction methods more than having a bigger scene to look at. There are some interesting ideas in my notes that are worth exploring but they deserve a context that will let them flourish rather than be constrained by an existing one that is fundamentally at odds with them.

How Do You Know When a Work is Complete?
Mill Road as a composition has an integrity that feels complete to me. Similar to a painting nearing completion, there is little or nothing to add or remove that would enhance it. The scene expresses the feel of the railroad in a particular setting that I wanted to capture. The lighted portion of the scene contrasts with the dark staging areas to focus the eye in a powerful way that having everything illuminated equally never could. Manipulating the scenery colors to draw the eye away from the transition zones at each end enhance the effect even more. If I followed the conventional path of adding more and more elements, the strong focus in the work would be lost. This simple truth is confirmed every time I try to alter the scene in a significant way.

The relentless desire for more only fuels dissatisfaction with what we already have. It perpetuates the lie that something outside of us will provide happiness forever. There’s a myth that the perfect prototype, track plan or room space exists if only we could find it. After decades of chasing this fantasy, I realized it’s an empty notion.

Let me be clear at this point. If a larger layout fits your needs and resources, then that’s a valid choice for you. Any choice we make in this craft will have good aspects along with a compromise of some kind. The path forward for me is to understand as clearly as possible, what it is that I actually want from a work and then pursue that. Your choices and criteria will be your own.

After many years and failed designs, I’ve discovered that a single scene around eight to twelve feet in length is the sweet spot in quarter-inch scale for my needs. Sixteen inches or less in depth has also proven more than adequate for the type of modeling I most enjoy.

These are my choices and it’s hubris to think they’re universally attractive to every taste. They aren’t. People want vastly different things from this craft and our discussions should recognize these differences more than it typically does.

The Time For a New Work Will Eventually Come
The materials purchased for the third module won’t be wasted. At some point, I’ll be ready to explore a different cameo of railroading and let the work go where it wants free from the constraints of trying to fit it into a pre-existing box. In the meantime, I’m letting go of the idea that there is a bigger and better version of Mill Road out there and be fully grateful for the one that I have.

Regards,
Mike