Tag: Writing

artistic questions

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in the same way that scientific researchers will articulate their research questions, i’ve been working as an artist on articulating the artistic questions that i investigate in my work. here are the five themes that keep resurfacing in my work, that i can’t seem to get away from—all under the umbrella theme of deep caring.

[0] DEEP CARING

  • what do we care about deeply, and why?
  • what is worth tremendous sacrifice for, and why?
  • when do we “fail to care,” or fail to live in accordance with our values?

[1] TRANSCENDENCE

  • “significance” “meaning” “beauty” “the sublime”
  • how might we build connection with something larger than ourselves?

[2] TRUTH

  • why do we believe what we believe?
  • how do good people come to believe in such conflicting perspectives?
  • how might we build a more nuanced understanding of what is true, what is good?
  • and how might we do so without being overwhelmed, inundated?

[3] PRIVILEGE

  • how do we coexist, given the various privileges, injustices, and differences that we carry?
  • how does caring for others intersect with caring for ourselves?
  • what stories do we tell ourselves about our privilege?
  • how might we use the privilege we have?

[4] STORYTELLING

  • what makes a story satisfying is different from what makes real life satisfying. so, how might we create stories that help us face reality more than they let us escape it? how might we create stories that expand empathy more than they encourage crippling expectations?
  • how might created stories fit into a person’s total “information diet”?

[5] COMMUNITY

  • how do we meaningfully connect? how do we meaningfully gather?
  • how might we create spaces where people feel like they belong?
  • how might we navigate the tension between the vibrancy of individuals and the “sheepleness” necessary for collective action?

auditory illusions

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In Grapefruit, Yoko Ono writes the following instructional poem:

OVERTONE PIECE

Make music only with overtones.

1964 Spring

Though most likely intended as conceptual art, I’ve wondered whether it’s possible to create OVERTONE PIECE. When a physical instrument creates a pitched sound, the fundamental tone has to exist in order for the overtones to exist. But with digital technology on our side, could we subtract the fundamental tone from a sound? For example, by using phase inversion or a very sharp EQ cut?

After some unfruitful research and experimentation, I stumbled onto the auditory illusion of the missing fundamental. It turns out that even when the fundamental frequency itself is missing, if the overtones imply a fundamental frequency, then we perceive the fundamental frequency to be there. (!)

Indeed, this auditory illusion is what makes it possible for crappy speakers without a real low end to “produce” low bass sounds: if you leave out the actual low bass fundamental frequencies but leave in the higher overtone frequencies of that same low bass, when you listen to the track, you’ll hear the illusion of a low bass. That’s right: the speaker plays no actual low frequencies, but because we hear the higher overtone frequencies, our brains act like those low frequencies exist. Wild, right?

So, if we try to make music only with overtones, our brain goes ahead and perceives those fundamental tones anyway. Which means that music only with overtones probably wouldn’t sound that novel…more an intellectual experience than a felt one.

But why not venture down the rabbit hole of auditory illusions! My favorites are now the Shepard-Risset glissando (an infinitely descending glissando), the Risset rhythmic effect (an infinitely accelerating breakbeat), and the Deutsch’s scale illusion (where what seem like two series of unconnected notes played to separate ears combine into a single recognizable idea). Shepard tones already flow through the musical culture, from The Beatles’s “I Am the Walrus” to Super Mario 64‘s never-ending stairs to The Dark Knight‘s Batpod motorcycle. Perhaps one of these new favorite auditory illusions shall lead to musical fruit.

cultivating inspiration as a long path

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A few posts ago, I talked about the skill of chasing inspiration—how there are concrete things that we as artists can do in order to find things that “juice” us and plant the seeds for future creativity. I’ve been thinking lately about how good ideas come about and wanted to share a few stories and reflections about how the path toward exciting ideas can be long.

The Triangle. The creator of one of my favorite musicals once told me that the show was born from a triangle of three key moments, moments that happened months apart. First, he had a conversation with a close collaborator in which they discovered that they both loved the same Greek tragedy. Second, he happened to meet an incredible performer who totally stunned him, for whom he passionately wanted to write. Third, a family member who had just moved to a new location gifted him a book with one line about a particular historical figure—one whose life corresponded closely with the main character of the Greek tragedy, and whom the incredible performer could star as. With that third moment, suddenly the triangle came together, and the first song was born. Months of conversation and experiences, some in unintentional and unrelated places, gave birth to the core idea of an amazing work of theatre and art.

Jelly Time. An artist once shared that every day, she gifts herself “jelly time,” a time when she follows her curiosity and lets it ooze freely. For me, my jelly time manifests as reading articles or books that sound interesting even though they don’t help with what I’m working on at the moment, listening to new music others have shared with me, playing or analyzing music I love to understand how it works, and composing either without an end goal or with the freedom to wander away from the end goal as I explore.

Sometimes there is no output, immediately or with time. But other times, this process bears sweet fruit. For example, a month ago, I loosely searched for inspiration gems from Central and Eastern European culture, and I let myself be distracted by the idea of Bulgarian dance rhythms. At the time, I was desperately trying to finish two songs, neither of which needed such rhythms, and I worried that this delightful excursion had been an indulgent waste of time. Earlier this week, however, I needed to quickly write several transformations of a musical theme, and with a particular Bulgarian dance rhythm in mind, I was able to come up with a really cool transformation in a short time. Even when I am able to work quickly, I feel that I am often most successful at this when I am leaning into ideas that have come up during jelly time.

Nebula Time. Nebulas are the birthplaces of stars! And most mornings, I gift myself “nebula time,” a time when I give myself space to reflect on what matters to me, what I’m proud of, what I’m grateful for, and what I hope for that day. My nebula time sometimes naturally spins into jelly time. I might write more about nebula time in a separate post.

the skill of chasing inspiration

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During my second semester of graduate school, I began to mentally sort my projects into three categories.

  1. Projects that feel like my heart’s work.
    This is the gold. When the story you’re telling and the words & music you’re writing feel aligned with your inner sense of purpose. When your idea fuels your inspiration and your heart wants intently to discover this thing you’re making. I pretty much always wish I were writing pieces in this category.
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  2. Projects that feel like skill-building opportunities.
    Especially when deadlines loom, we don’t always have the luxury to discover the work that feels like our heart’s work. Even if we don’t feel inspired about the ideas themselves, we can find inspiration in the opportunity we have to build our skills so that when we find project ideas that do feel like our heart’s work, we have the tools in our toolkit to make the most of those moments of inspiration.
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  3. Projects that feel like doing laundry.
    Occasionally, we run across projects that we have to do in order to be reasonable graduate students, even though we struggle to find the excitement for them. These exercises can feel like going through the motions without aim; these are the most frustrating pieces to write. To minimize the frustration, I often give these exercises as little time as possible; whatever comes out of me goes into the piece without much foresight or afterthought.

This mental sorting has been helpful for me, enabling me to prioritize my favorite projects while behaving reasonably about my least favorite projects.

However, I’m beginning to understand that part of being an effective artist means knowing how to bring a project from a lower category to a higher category.

I call this the skill of chasing inspiration—of noticing when you aren’t feeling inspired and venturing out in search for a kernel or framing that re-sparks your excitement.

Sometimes, this skill will feel like an active “chasing” or “pursuing.” Other times it will feel like a natural “following” or “finding.”

This skill becomes especially necessary as we begin to write longer pieces. Of course, we should avoid embarking on a longer piece unless we already love the idea enough that it drives us out of bed in the morning, but if we start to feel lost and uninspired—and inevitably, we will—we must know how to find the tinder and kindling to reignite our own inspiration.

We don’t always have to do this alone. Our collaborators, teachers, and supporters can help us. But we will get stuck. So we’d better cultivate the skill of getting unstuck.

the bogus condition

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In The Musical Theatre Writer’s Survival Guide, author David Spencer proclaims:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WRITER’S BLOCK. NOT WHEN A musical with a decently developing foundation is under way.

There is emotional turmoil and personal mishegoss that can interfere with writing, to be sure; and certainly the need to juggle a pay-the-bills “civilian” job with limited creative time can sap one’s energy and concentration—at least until you figure out how to prioritize and pace yourself. But allowing for the absence or the moderation or the mastery of such real-life distractions, and the presence of even mild professional-minded functionality, writer’s block is a mythical malady borne of four quite real symptoms:

1. You don’t have enough information.
2. The song or scene you’re trying to write is resisting you because the underlying premise is false.
3. Something is intrinsically amiss with your story structure or your underlying theme, and in trying to accommodate that flaw, you’re running up against its limitations.
4. What you’re trying to write simply isn’t good enough by your own standards, and your internal barometer is urging you to start again.

What I like about this framework is that if you can categorize which symptom you are experiencing, you can take concrete actions to resolve the “block.” If 1), you need to study your character more closely, or research the parameters of the situation, or find music that inspires the sound palette you want. If 2), you need to rewrite the scene or musicalize with a different moment or a different character. If 3), you need to re-examine your assumptions about the larger story and see if one of those premises is problematic. If 4), you just need to identify the part that’s dissatisfying and rewrite it completely, or even start the whole song over from scratch. And if you’re not sure which symptom it is, you can try any number of these solutions, and see what works.

advice for writing lyrics, for beginners

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A friend recently asked me if I had any advice for writing lyrics. I’m not sure I have especially profound songwriting advice to share, as I still feel very much like a beginner myself, but here are a few thoughts on songwriting that I found helpful when I got started.
  • Look at and learn from songs you like! How the writer moves between ideas, uses structure, chooses words, etc. Lorde’s “Liability” is one that I’ve enjoyed studying this way.
  • It’s okay for lyrics to not feel right / up to your aesthetic standard in the first draft. Rewriting is very common and normal. Getting better at something over time is normal, too.
  • Many—most?—successful songs are about one core idea. Ideally, the core idea will develop or vary throughout the song so that it’s interesting for the listener. In typical song structures, the core idea is in the chorus, and the variation happens in the verse—but you can play with that. 
  • You don’t have to rhyme. Also, playing with “near rhymes” can be really fun. Jason Mraz’s “A Beautiful Mess” is one song I love that uses near rhymes in a neat way.
Getting stuck while writing a song is normal, too. Depending on the type of stuck-ness you are experiencing, different things might help:
  • Go back to the character. Who is singing this song? What’s happening in their lives, and what would they want to say about it? This is especially helpful for musical theatre lyrics.
  • Freewrite. Choose a topic or symbol in the song and write whatever comes to mind about it, just to get yourself expressing (however unartfully) about the song’s key ideas. Describing the five traditional senses (and the less traditional senses, too) as they relate to your idea/symbol can open up your writing. Sometimes, an interesting idea will pop up and you can capitalize on that.
  • Let your thesaurus & rhyming dictionary spark new ideas. Picking a few keywords and then roaming through a thesaurus or rhyming dictionary with them can generate unexpected ideas.
  • Ask other folks to read/listen. Though it’s often good to take folks’ advice with a grain of salt, folks tend to represent their own reflections fairly honestly, and you can use that information to influence your writing.

Thank you to Nathan for inspiring this post.

productive and reflective journaling

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Productive Journaling: Caveday Focus Questions

In November, I attended a CreativeMornings FieldTrip by Caveday, an organization that teaches people how to work smarter by facilitating deep work sessions. Before we began our work sprint, we each wrote down the answer to three questions:

  1. What do you want to accomplish?
  2. How will you approach this?
  3. What does finished look like?

I like Questions 1 and 2, because it’s surprising how often I sit down to “write” or “compose” but don’t have a clear picture of exactly what I’ll be doing. By being more specific about what I’m doing—whether it’s clarifying the story I want to tell, browsing rhyming dictionary entries for key words, designing the verse melody, or re-composing the music for the bridge—I give myself the clarity I need to take action without second-guessing myself. I may later discover that my approach isn’t working, but at least I’m using my time trying out an approach, not waffling about which approach to try.

I like Question 3, because I sometimes get distracted from getting closer to completing my task because I’m refining something that’s already “good enough.” The temptation to refine is especially true for me in artistic/creative endeavors, where the details do matter, and sometimes “good enough” isn’t actually good enough. (To elaborate, I do think there are some art forms that I can enjoy even if the quality isn’t all there—for example, I can enjoy a nascent singer-songwriter’s work even if they’re rough around the edges—but for some art forms, notably ballet and opera, I have a hard time enjoying the form when it’s done in a mediocre way, even though it’s truly sublime and unlike anything else when it’s done at the highest level by the most talented people.) But done now is better than perfect never.

Reflective Journaling: The Five Minute Journal Questions

I probably first read about The Five Minute Journal a long time ago, but I rediscovered these questions a few days ago. The premise is that you take just five minutes a day to reflect on 2-3 answers for each of the following questions:

  1. I am grateful for…
  2. Would would make today great?
  3. Daily affirmation. I am…
  4. 3 Amazing things that happened today…
  5. How could I have made today even better?

I like these questions because they orient your reflection in constructive ways. You’re primed to feel grateful, to create greatness in your day, and to affirm a positive self-narrative. You celebrate the highlights and look toward how you can improve things for the future.

I also like that these questions are often straightforward to answer, because they’re grounded in how you’re currently feeling as well as the day immediately before and behind you, which makes reflection feel natural, less forced.

Reflective Journaling: Morning Pages

If you want to create, but you experience self-doubt about your ability or energy to create, I highly, highly recommend Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. This book significantly changed my view on what it means to create and be an artist, and I’ve spoken with countless others who have been positively transformed by this book too. Yes, a lot of the content and tone is hokey, but in spite of that, this book has been extremely effective at empowering artists to feel freedom to create.

With regarding to journaling, one of the most valuable exercises from the book is Morning Pages—a ritual of writing three pages of stream-of-consciousness thinking every day. One of the benefits of doing this much stream-of-consciousness writing every day is that you allow space to reflect on life experiences that you may not have been fully aware were affecting or bothering you in a way that needed more processing and reflection. The sheer volume of writing allows these experiences to surface and demand attention and action. If meditation gives you the quiet space to observe thoughts as they happen and set them aside, morning pages give you the freedom to record those thoughts and how you’d like to act on them.

There’s a copy of the book here which I found from elsewhere on the internet. Read it!

modern stories of love

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There’s a new crop of stories emerging that try to center on more realistic views of romance and relationships. Examples include Alain de Botton’s novel The Course of Love, John Bowe’s collection of anecdotes Us: Americans Talk About Love, The New York Times’ Modern Love column, Sue Johnson’s couples therapy book Hold Me Tight, and Esther Perel’s couples therapy podcast Where Should We Begin?. All of these works have their flaws, and it’s no surprise that only the first of the five is a work of fiction; the rest rely on the fact that the stories are real in order to engage their audience.

An alternative to telling realistic stories is using hyperbolized humor to reveal the underlying problems with idealized romance. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend does so with aplomb, and even Disney has begun to caricature its own romanticized world with Frozen’s “Love is an Open Door.” The heightened emotional nature of song and dance that audiences love might not suit a low-drama, high-realism story, but it can suit an obviously exaggerated situation. By redirecting those heightened emotions for satiric occasions rather than realistic ones, humor could play a fascinating role in influencing us to examine our unhealthy assumptions about love.

sulking, and the course of love

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“At the heart of a sulk lies a confusing mixture of intense anger and an equally intense desire not to communicate what one is angry about. The sulker both desperately needs the other person to understand and yet remains utterly committed to doing nothing to help them do so. The very need to explain forms the kernel of the insult: if the partner requires an explanation, he or she is clearly not worth of one. We should add that it is a privilege to be the recipient of a sulk: it means the other person respects and trusts us enough to think we should understand their unspoken hurt. It is one of the odder gifts of love.”
— Alain de Botton, The Course of Love

What I love about this book: it talks about the right problems. In a world filled with happily-ever-after fairytales and stereotyped black-and-white good-or-bad relationships, de Botton chooses to grapple with what it means for two real and imperfect people to be in a real and imperfect relationship. He describes the individuals’ feelings and the relationship problems in a way that resonates with relationship experiences as they might actually happen, rather than in some idealized form.

What I don’t love about this book: it sometimes shows wrong or oversimplified behaviors. I worry that people will treat this book as a guide for how to respond in their own relationships, and there were at least three problematic behaviors that bothered me.

  1. Effective communication is oversimplified. While it’s great for a person to apologize if he thinks he has done something wrong, the author seems to imply that an apology is sufficient to heal a relationship after a fight, when it doesn’t actually solve what actually caused the fight. I wish there had been a follow-up scene to the apology, in which the two people discussed what happened and why, demonstrated strong listening skills, brainstormed potential solutions, and then tried to make real changes in their behavior for each other.
  2. Honesty is not valued as highly as I think it should be. Even by the end of the book, one character chooses to “not hurt his partner’s feelings” and hide his affair from his partner forever, rather than tell the truth about his affair. I find this appalling. I’ll write another post about honesty in relationships sometime, but one of the reasons I think honesty is so important in relationships is that by being honest, you give your partner the agency to act based on the information you have, and by lying you are robbing them of that agency. That seems wrong.
  3. Polygamy and jealousy are oversimplified. The author seems, through one of the characters, to claim one authoritative view on jealousy and affairs: that affairs are only bad in that they hurt your partner, but that this is sufficiently damning to put affairs off limits. This is certainly a valid way to view sex outside of marriage, but it’s only one perspective, and in a healthy relationship, I think the two parties should talk about their views rather than assume how the other person would feel. Two people could certainly commit to a monogamous relationship, or they could mutually commit to allowing certain kinds of sex outside of marriage. Two people could agree that they would feel jealous and unhappy about it happening, or they could agree that they will aim to be happy that their partner is living their fullest and happiest life, even if it involves sex with someone else (see compersion: opposite of jealousy). In my view, the discussion and shared commitment is critical, and I’m disappointed that the book didn’t give it appropriate weight.

 

a bulrush basket

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The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful… Their love story did not begin until afterwards: she fell ill and he was unable to send her home as he had the others. Kneeling by her as she lay sleeping in his bed, he realized that someone had sent her downstream in a bulrush basket. I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.

— Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I don’t like Kundera’s novels — I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being a few years ago and Ignorance just now, and these novels feel incomplete, unresolved — but there’s something about the poetry of his words that captivates the romantic part of my imagination. We have these poignant little moments in life, and this is what Kundera captures so well.

I went to see a new dentist earlier this week, and you forget this when you’ve had the same dentist for years, but a new dentist needs to diagnose what’s happening with your teeth all over again, so he takes your x-rays and tell you all these things you already know about yourself. That you had braces; twice, in fact, because your parents didn’t realize that having braces in elementary school was unwise. That you had your wisdom teeth taken out (three wisdom teeth; not two, not four, but three). That you still have a baby tooth — and this one you have to explain; you were born with an extra tooth on one side and one missing on the other, so they removed the extra adult tooth and pulled the one above it down with a gold chain, and the baby tooth never got pushed out and remains in your mouth to this day. It’s going to fall out soon, he says. Not tomorrow,  but soon.

And suddenly, you are aware of your adulthood — not because you have a baby tooth, or because that baby tooth will someday soon fall out and you’ll either need an implant or have a missing-tooth smile for the rest of your life, but because you are the only soul in the world who knows about this baby tooth, and all at once it hits you, what it means to be alone.

That’s a Kundera moment.