One of the most influential off-the-wall sources has been music. I don’t mean just listening to music as I write, no I mean gaining insight into my writing through the techniques use by musicians. I’ve been lucky enough to attend a great many musical performances of all kinds and I’ve gained a lot of insight.
In a way writing is more like music than anything else. Writers, like musicians, must practice our craft. If a writer or musician takes a class, that does not excuse them from practice. There is never improvement without practice. I’ve heard it mentioned time and time again that this is particularly true for those musician (and writers!) that are gifted. It is easy to fall back on that gift and not push into a place that is more challenging, and in order to improve, to embrace writing, you must. Musicians do scales, we write small pieces that no one sees, but challenge some part of our skill. A character study, a scene, something small, to warm up before we attempt a larger piece. Once the larger pieces become part of out repertoire, then it’s time to push and try something new. A different style, a new point of view, a new genre.
It’s from musicians I’ve gotten some of the inspiration for my own style as well. I have a passion for polyphony—that magnificent music that showcases the human voice in all its glory. More complex than Gregorian chant, it reached its peak with the genius of Palestrina. For me, I find the Fourteenth Century master Machaut amazing.
A few years ago, I not only had the chance to hear the Tallis Scholars perform, but managed to attend a lecture beforehand. It was an eye-opening experience. One of the things I found most interesting was the discussion of vibrato. Most modern singers (opera/choral) use vibrato when they sing, but in order to sing polyphony you can’t. The notes are designed to be steady, held pure on that single note and any vibration will “muddy” (his word) the sound.
Now, what does that mean for writing? How does a writer use vibrato? For me, I think this is the tendency to use that extra word that’s really not needed. What I love about polyphony is the purity of the music. Writing should be the same. Even with a very complex sentence, paragraph or idea, there is no need to “muddy” the waters with that extra “vibration” that could very well ruin the purity of the thought.
On 21-April 2010, I had the privilege to audit a master class with the classical guitarist David Russell. It was an amazing experience, hearing a master speaking about his art and craft. As I was listening, it occurred to me that so much of what he was saying applies not just to the guitar—or music in general—it also applies to writing and other arts. I came back from the master class as inspired as the guitarists who were there, and excited to apply Russell’s lessons to writing. I thought I would share some of these with my ideas on what they meant to me.
The greatest connection you have with your audience is your rhythm. Writing does have a rhythm. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been talking about a book or story and said “I love their rhythm” or “their story is good, but I don’t like the rhythm.” It is something that writers tend to forget, that our words have an ebb and a flow, a musicality, even if they are not intended as the spoken word. We need to be aware of those things and think, when we are writing, about the things that affect our rhythm.
Don’t let them hear your difficulty. The reader can sense that, when a writer fights their story. We have to learn to keep on going. Move on through the scene, then if it is still rough, return to it, but let the story go on.
When you are always dark, you lose the sparkle. This is so true! Unrelenting darkness can really make or break a story. Think about those books or TV shows or movies that are completely without a “lightness”. It takes away from the “real” feeling of the story and lessens the dark moment when you need it most.
Find places where we [the audience] can breathe with you. Taking a moment to pause, even in the middle of an intense action scene, lets the reader appreciate what is going on, lets them catch up and latch onto what is happening. A moment of comfort, a laugh, even a short description to set a scene up, it is part of the rhythm of the words.
The idea is that even though you are under pressure you can make beautiful phrases. Writing isperformance on a public scale, just like getting on a stage and playing a Bach Concerto. I know that sometimes I get so caught up in the nerves of “performing” or the pressure to finish a chapter, an article or even a book, I lose track of what I am writing and focus only on the race to wrap it up.
Don’t let the accompaniment overpower the top note [melody]. This might be one of the biggest failings of writers, getting so caught up in everything else that is going on that we lose sight of our storyline. Descriptive phrases, adjectives and adverbs are all wonderful in their place, but staying aware of our melody is the most important thing, without a clear melody [storyline], all the accompaniment in the world will accomplish nothing.
[Speed, volume] are like a weapon, if we use them too often they become too much, if we always use them the same way our opponent, or audience, will know what is coming. Another one of those huge problems writers have. Instead of speed or volume, it can be a particular turn of phrase, a certain word or setting. Used every so often they can be wonderful, but all the time and they become either overwhelming or banal.
Let the resolution be the resolution. When you reach the end, there is no need to draw it out, when you find that moment of closure, let it be, don’t keep poking at it until the moment is lost.
Little intervals have meaning to our subconscious. How many times have you read something and one small moment struck you and stayed with you? It is something that we need to be aware of as writers, but we also need to remember that the “little interval” is not always one of our choosing, we need to be aware of the totality of a piece as well as the rhythm of the small parts.
We fight so long to get legato we forget staccato. As a writer, I looked at this as the fight for vocabulary. As our vocabulary improves, the tendency to want to use the ever increasingly complex words—and hence sentences—can become overwhelming, maybe even intoxicating. Take a pause and look at a piece and think does that word really work? Or that sentence? Or could I convey what I want in simpler terms and keep the rhythm of my piece?
Don’t let the feeling be lost in the struggle. I think sometimes we can lose the awareness of our story, fighting so hard to create a chapter or a paragraph we forget the feeling and emotions we want to convey.
Don’t sacrifice the beauty of the phrase for the beauty of a moment. That happens sometimes, doesn’t it? Reading along and all of a sudden we, the writer, get so caught up in describing a single moment the that other moments around it are lost.
I find it’s an idea I return to again and again. Writer as musician. I’m not sure if it’s because of my own early training in music, or because of my vast love of both disciplines, but to me, they are to tied together that if you follow the rules of one, you will find a resonance in the other.