One of the things that a musician must learn to do is how to make their music sing. It’s one thing to be able to play the notes and master the rhythm; it’s an entirely different thing to make it sound musical. There are tempos to be followed, crescendos and decrescendos to give the music its own brand of vibrancy, staccatos to give it that extra pizzaz, and dozens of other musical elements that, when included into the performance of the music, give the song a life of its own.
That was one of the most difficult things for me as a fledgling piano player to master. For a long while all I could see were those notes on the page. My fingers were having a difficult enough time just finding all the right keys, let alone giving them personality. But that is what the master piano player, the teacher, is for, to push the student beyond their capabilities and stretch to accomplish new heights of musical expression. The teacher shows the student how the formulaic rhythm of the piece can be more than the sum of its parts, more than just technique. When the performer pours his heart and soul into the composition, suddenly you find that it has a life of its own. The technique of playing has found the artistry of expression, and a new creature springs to life from the fingers of musician at the keyboard.
As in music so it is in writing. Composing stories and tales involves much more than mere technique. I’ve always been something of a grammar Nazi, a strictly regimented enforcer of the ‘rules’ of the English language. In high school I devoured grammar and spelling books to the point where my classmates hated having me proofread any of their work. Invariably, I would return their manuscripts, covered in red ink where I found spelling, grammar, and syntax errors, and they would groan as they worked to revise them.
At the time I thought that was enough to become a good writer, if I had so chosen. Yet, now I am learning that technique alone is not enough to produce an interesting and captivating story. There is an art to writing, something that should be blatantly obvious to anyone who has read a novel or short story. But it is something that is not readily seen or understood until one takes on the challenge of creating a story of their own. It becomes apparent in short order just how difficult it is to weave that level of artistry into a story – to select that just-right word or phrase, to establish that perfect setting, to weave that stunning character profile – that refuses to let the reader put the book down and simply walk away. It requires practice and effort to create something so sublime, and often it takes a master teacher to help guide the fledgling writer along as they seek to better their craft.
One of the things that I have loved so much about networking with other writers is this ability to share and compare notes, to share some of the scraps of our writing in hopes of gaining honest, constructive criticism. This criticism is sometimes hard to swallow – none of us like to be told that our work is less than perfect – but it is invaluable in the longrun to becoming better writers and authors. It is a risk to share these things that are so dear to our hearts, but it is, I believe, a risk worth taking.
Here’s to helping one another along to becoming masterful artists in the art of wordcraft.
Purdue’s campus has quite a bit of sculpture on display. Most of it is pretty nice; it dresses the campus up very well, giving it a bit more character and personality. But I must admit – sculpture is one of those artistic mediums that I don’t fully understand. Actually, I should probably be a bit more clear. What I don’t understand is simplistic art. I appreciate art that shows complexity, that shows how much work and time and effort the artist put into designing and creating it. I appreciate such art, and I respect and admire the artist for it. Detailed work takes great personal sacrifice on the part of the artist, and it involves great risk to display it in public, waiting to see if they will love it or hate it.
The thing that gets me is when the intellectual takes a higher place of importance to the visual (or the auditory, in the case of musical or literary works read aloud). I can’t understand how an artist could possibly be satisfied with his work of art that is so simple in design that it looks as though a small child could have conceived of it. I realize that the artist probably spent hours trying to decide what shape his work should take so that it could best represent the abstract concept bouncing around in his brain, and I respect that. I do. I guess I just feel that good art should be created in such a way as to need no explanation from the artist in order for the general public to understand and appreciate it.
I saw a painting once that made me turn my head various ways trying to figure out what it was, trying to figure out what possessed the artist to create it, trying to understand what, if any, meaning there was behind it. Someone who knew the artist saw my confusion and proceeded to explain in great detail what the picture was and what the concept was that inspired it. The sad thing is that I don’t remember the explanation now. It was simply too complicated and not at all inspirational.