Get Thee Behind Me, Oh Gimmicks!

I was at a piano teachers' workshop many years ago, eagerly absorbing the wisdom and advice from a master piano teacher I admired greatly. My notebook was filling fast, my mind was challenged, and my coffee was ignored and cooling in the flask.

Teaching piano, like writing, can be a solitary occupation, despite the fact that the job itself requires at least two people to be present. It's solitary in that a teacher has very few opportunities to discuss and argue and share their aha moments.

I felt that aloneness most acutely when I started my own piano studio after spending three years teaching and apprenticing at a community music school. I missed the camaraderie I'd had with my colleagues who were always ready to talk music or teaching or music and teaching and life. I learned as much from our discussions in the kitchen over ramen noodles (kitchen pedagogy sessions as we affectionately call those times) as I did in formal classes.

Back to this particular workshop. The last event on the program was this teacher- extraordinaire teaching a group of children from the piano preparatory department of the music school that hosted the workshop. He engaged the students on stage and the piano teachers in the audience the entire time, and helped the performers make changes to their pieces that immediately made the music better and the children more confident. I was spellbound and so blown away that I was almost in tears.

"Do you have any questions?" He asked as the students left the stage. Hands shot up. He nodded at one person.

"I was wondering about the cardboard boxes that these students had?" Many other teachers nodded enthusiastically. More questions and comments arose about those boxes, about how they would motivate students to practice (huh?) and where they could be ordered.

Anyone who could read my mind at the time would decide I was a total snob. But I was dismayed and almost crushed by what I was hearing. Here was a brilliant person offering us thoughts that he had distilled over years of teaching, and they were interested in the cardboard box? Sure, the boxes were nifty but how, how, how could anyone possibly be more interested in a gimmick than the real thing? *

That was probably the beginning of my intolerance for gimmicks. And now that radar is being trained on fiction.

It's inevitable, I supposed, that any time a lot of people clamor for attention, somebody will resort to gimmicks. And of course, what qualifies as a gimmick is up for interpretation and depends on execution. I wouldn't be surprised if someone calls my work gimmicky (and stabs me in the gushy bit within my chest in the process.) In other words, I am totally aware of the subjectivity of it all.

Even so, I'd like to know: what do you consider the most intolerable gimmick in fiction?

*The more mellow (and hopefully more humble) me now realize that just because most of the comments were on the box didn't mean that it was the thing that made the most impact on the teachers in attendance. Getting older does have its benefits.

Your rubato is too predictable

The 24-hour classical music public radio station didn't get enough funding and had to move to a weaker signal. I can no longer just turn on the radio anytime and expect Bach or Shostakovich. Which is why the other night when I heard a Beethoven sonata on another public radio station, I was elated.

But only for a few seconds. My musician brain started to take command.

"No, no, no, you're being too stodgy with this passage. It is forte and has sforzandos but you still need to move the phrases forward, not weigh them down with this tempo plus the extra heavy touch."

"Again? Are you sure? You've already played this phrase in this exact manner of rubato in the Exposition, and you think you should do it in the exact same way? Has nothing happened in the Development section? Does the modulation cause no change? How can you treat it as if the music has stayed static?"

"That ending. Exquisite." Sigh in contentment

Critical: yes. Annoying: yes. Able to enjoy the music I love: only at the very end.

That's what devoting years of you life to studying something does; it sharpens your eyes and ears, it favors your critical-thinking, it spoils the easy enjoyment you've had when you first fell in love. But it also provides the delight of those rare and subtle moments when excellence is achieved that you wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't put in all those years in study.

Worth it?

Ideal World? You got off the train too early; it's the next stop

Quick, tell me one on your worthwhile goals.

Here are some of mine:

• Good teeth (yes, I'm still traumatized by my recent visit)
  
• Healthy immune system
• Mastery of an instrument
• A well-maintained backyard
• Strong muscles and flexibility
• A fierce martial-arts form
• writing that engages and moves people
  
• Close relationships with those I love

And I'll tell you--and annoy you no end because you already know this--that each one requires deliberate, consistent, and thoughtful efforts.

Just the way it is: worthwhile=difficult, meaningless=easy.

Why can't there be a world in which the opposite is true?

From Where I Stand, or Head Hopping

One of the earliest lessons I learned in writing fiction is to pay careful attention to POV: that important position from which a story is told. Stick closely to the Point-Of-View you've chosen; don't switch nilly-willy from third to first and definitely do not jump from head to head. It confuses the reader, who wants to identify with the person who's telling the story.

It's true that head jumping is disorienting, and I get irritable when an author tells me things that the POV person shouldn't know, and it seems like a lazy thing to do.

But when can rules be broken? When did Picasso start deviating from drawing people as they looked to the rest of the world, and deciding that things seen from multiple perspectives are more interesting? Perhaps after he's mastered the basic "rules" of his art form?


Roxana Robinson has a masterful grasp of language (although it's pompous for me to pronouce that; like a violin student telling Joshua Bell he has a masterful grasp of his art form.) In her book, Cost, she shifts POV frequently. In chapter four, for example, we see the scene from the viewpoints of Edward; his wife, Katherine; their daughter, Julia; and Julia's grown son, Steven. The transitions were smooth; I never had any doubt whose head I was in; and no hint of irribility is detected anywhere within my reader/writer brain.

Rules are meant to be broken: when the rule breaker has mastered the rule and can break the rule without violating the idea/spirit behind said rule.

Agree? Not? Vehemently?

Tomorrow I'll ask some follow-up questions, such as:
What rules do you find you violate, but with justification?

Why do you read?

I read to engage.
I read to learn.
I read so I can say, "No way, that is not possible."
I read so I can exclaim, "That's It! That's exactly it!"
I read to escape.
I read to understand.
I read so I have an excuse to cry tears I can't cry in real life.
I read so I can laugh out loud
I read so I can nudge my husband, saying, "Hey, listen to this."
I read to sort, to order, to classify.
I read to revel in the beauty of language.
I read to receive the authors' out-reached hands they extend through their books.
I read to assure myself I'm not the only one.




Why do you read?



[Mendis pondering his fate by indi.ca; Reading by paulbence; reaching out by alfarman. All pictures found at Flickr Commons.]

Judge not, lest ye be judged

So, okay, I shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but can't I judge a person by the book she loves? Say, a full grown woman who swoons over a YA book featuring a luminous boy? I know, this says more about my being judgmental and snobbish than the other person's anything besides her tastes in books.

Do you? Judge people by the books they rave about?

And what books do you love that you're afraid to admit to? Or books you're supposed to like but don't?

A trend in kids' movies?

Took the kids to see Up in 3D this afternoon. The second thought I had afterward, is that there seems to be a trend in making popular kids' books, particularly pictures books, into movies.

(All right, for you who are curious: the first question is why I paid extra $2.50 X 3 for a pair of dorky glasses that give me a headache for a story in which the 3D-ness isn't even important?)

The much heralded Where the Wild Things Are looks to be a big-budget undertaking, and Cloudy With A Chance of Meatball inserts a back-story and protagonist to explain why the weather brings food in Chewandswallow.

To make full-length, or even almost full-length movies from a picture book, the core story has to be padded with subplots or back story. In Night At the Museum, there is the whole divorced-family-with-kid plot line as well as the- disgruntled-employees-cooking-up-a-crime plot line. I mentioned the backstory in Cloudy and I can imagine what they can do with Max and the Wild Things.

But what will they do to Goodnight Moon?

Learning, practicing, and friends from faraway

When I picked up Natalie Goldberg's book on writing memoir, Friends From Faraway, I wasn't intending to write a memoir, not seriously anyway. Neither did I realize the title was a saying of Confucius. The poem, from which this line is taken, loosely translates to:

We learn, and practice what we learn.
What joy.
Friends arrive from faraway.
What happiness.

[It is a lot more elegant in the original;)]

Coincidental or not, this is the book I am reading as I return to my childhood home, reminisicing with family and old friends, reconnecting to the language of my youth.

Every trip I've taken since leaving home twenty five years ago has taught me something about my family and myself. This trip is no different. And as with other trips, the process is filled with nostalgia, moments of epiphany, and occasionally, sorrow.

The thoughts and emotions from this trip will work themselves out in the next months and years. Maybe I will be writing a memoir after all.

It's all good

The family-reunion genre may not have the classic story arc; the characters may seem to act in ways that defy story logic; the conflicts don't often resolve in satisfying ways. But it is characterized by moments of grace and sacrifices, compassion and stubborn optimism.

From Natalie Goldberg's Friends From Far Away:
It's a simple idea really; eac a lot of peaches, you'll become a peach. Read good books, ones that are well-written where the author cares, thinks, is willing to feel the aching texture of the world and of this own rough mind and you are at least a third of the way into the practice.

a certain type of novel

Family reunions are like novels written from multiple POVs, each narrator unreliable and sympathetic.

A quote from a new book I am reading: Natalie Goldberg's Old Friend From Far Away, about writing and remembering:

Let your mind first believe you are dedicated, that you sincerely want the truth, are willing to take what comes through. Keep moving the pen. Keep practicing.

Till the next time, when I will return with more observations about how family reunions relate to writing, and quotes from Goldberg.

Give me embarrassment any time!

Recently someone told me I was brave.

That took me completely by surprise. I've long resigned to the fact that I'm chicken about many things. When I read of courageous acts in books, I'm always filled with admiration and longing. I tell myself I need to overcome at least some of my fears, and have, in fact, taken a few baby-steps toward this goal.

But I know I am far from being brave. Which is why that statement gave me pause. After mulling over it, I realized that the reason I did that supposedly-brave thing is that I prefer embarrassment over regret.

I've sabotaged my own successes many times out of fear. Those events have gnawed at me over the years, giving me pangs of regret. I know how to deal with them more effectively now, but the intensity of these pangs haven't subsided.

In contrast to that, there have been times when I've subdued my fear enough to do something brave. Some of those times have resulted in embarrassing moments, a couple of them spectacularly so, like when I had a full-on brain freeze on my very first piano competition and couldn't continue beyond the first page of my Chopin Ballade and so I just stood up to bow--bow!!!--as the audience clapped politely to signal their relief I was about to leave the stage.

But the effects of the embarrassment, unlike those of regret, die off. Apparently, Time does heal, the pain of embarrassment at least.

This is a timely reminder, as I am sending off another round of submissions. I've received a few encouraging responses, but the rejections are coming in as well. But I know now that I can live better with having tried without succeeding, than not trying at all.

I wish you courage.

Mouse? What happened to the Dragon?

Some of you know that I am a fan of Jeff Stone's Five Ancestors series. I love the story, the main characters, the kung fu, and as a writer, I am extremely impressed by the opening of the first book in the series, Tiger.

The premise: four young and highly-trained martial arts masters are forced out of their temple home when one of their former brothers burnt it down and killed their master in search of a special scroll. Each book in the series is devoted to one of the young masters, whose style of martial arts is based on one of these animals: tiger, monkey, snake, crane, and dragon. If you look that covers of the books, you'll see the insignia of these five animals.

After devouring the first four books in the series, I eagerly awaited the fifth, which I had anticipated to be about the dragon and the last book in the series.

But that fifth book was Eagle, not dragon; and it wasn't the last book. So I grumbled a little, but accepted Eagle because the errant brother was originally trained in the eagle style kung fu even though he wants nothing more than to be a dragon.

At the library the other day, I saw the newest installment of this series, and not only is it still not the last book, its title is Mouse, a character who was introduced only in book 5! Can they create detours like that?

What am I to do? Can't not read it! So I grumbled: where is the kung fu? And why is the dragon scroll now so insignificant when it propelled the earlier books? And just where did that jade armor come from?

Mouse redeemed himself towards the end with some well-placed snot, an over-ambitious imitation of a kung-fu move, and lots of spunk.

All right, Jeff Stone, the next one had better be Dragon (an ad at the back of Mouse says it is but I"ll believe it when I see it) and there had better be more kung fu (not more violence though) and no more introduction of an extremely powerful and important artifact that was not mentioned before.

End of vent.

Who moved my line?

This past week, I've received a number of responses to my work which spark off all manner of interesting thoughts, ranging from what-if-I-change-this-scene to I-never-thought-about-it-that- way to huh,-really?

One person commented that a couple of my descriptions don't make sense. I was trying to avoid cliches and show familiar scenes in a fresh way but apparently, my efforts fall as flat as a pancake at the bottom of the stack. (Don't even bother commenting on this one.)

That got me thinking: the line the separates what works and what doesn't is not only fine, but undefined.

Unusual and fresh can easily become obscure;
universal--cliche
subtle--unclear
lively--hyper
colorful and quirky--too-clever and annoying

And don't forget one-man's-trash and beauty-lies-in-the-eyes and all the others cliches we hate but agree reluctantly.

So what are some of the areas whose boundaries are so fluid and ever-changing that give you grief when you write?

Queries, queries, and yet more queires

I spent the last few months reworking my Middle Grade novel, changing not only the POV but also the central theme. It's been a slow-going, hair-pulling, occasionally gut-wrenching experience.

[frustration by sara.atkins at Flikr Creative Commons]

The revision is on its way, so I thought I should work on a new query.

[Yikes! by photojenni at Flickr Creative Commons]

Isn't it funny how when your mind is on something, you see it everywhere? Well, I discovered the QueryFail event on Twitter, in which agents and editors Twitter on queries they receive in real time, for all the twitter-following world to read. *shudder*

Lots of reaction. Lots and LOTS of reactions. Loud ones. Rude ones. Loudly rude ones. Read some over here at the comments section at agent Nathan Bransford's blog.

Or. Don't read any of it. Instead, if you're in the midst of writing your three-paragraph letter that tells all about your book while allowing your unique voice to shine through, you may want to read these instead:

Associate Editor and writer Jill Corcoran's compilation of agents' and editors' guides on how to write a query

The article on AgentQuery on How to Write a Query.

Time to revisit mine. ("Query: I command thee, gel! Be brilliant! Knock the socks off some agents!" Um. I need a magic wand. Anyone?)

So write already!

This last post focuses on those suggestions from Barbara Samuel that have to do with the actual writing. She says:

A novel in progress is as delicate as an embryo, and it is your job to protect it from any environment that might harm it. Protect it from too much judgment or feedback, from other people, but also from yourself.

and

Your job is not to judge... only to serve each one as it arrives,

Protect it as I would an embryo.

Serve it as a guest.

When I view my work this way, courtesy and respect enter the picture, and I am no longer at liberty to be harsh and demeaning. I am not sure why, when I considered my writing just as an extension of me, it was okay to be nasty. But I am going to be mindful of my work being not just a part of me, but its own entity as well. Just like my children, whom I recognize and respect as beings separate from me.

To those of you who have indulged my process of de-funking, thank you. Your encouragement is a lifeline. I'd like to report that I started writing again this morning. I am back on the wagon and practicing my new attitude.

I wish you: beautiful relationships with all your words.

Don't Take it Too Seriously

Don't take it too seriously.

The last piece of advice from Barbara Samuel's blog post on reclaiming the joy of writing seems to counter the it's-a-difficult-and-huge-task-this-writing-business-and-you-gotta-take-it-seriously-or-else-you'd-never-succeed vibe about getting published and read.

Yet we've all known people (ourselves?) who take themselves and their jobs/passions so seriously that we feel as if life itself is being sucked away.

I am serious about writing. I know about hard work and perseverance. What I need is exactly this advice, so that in the midst of the teeth-grtting sessions of revisions, or hair-pulling moments of not getting the emotion just right, I can breathe and remember that there is more to life than just my writing.

(Please don't tell me that if I think there is more to life than writing, then writing must not be that important to me and therefore I should just get out and do something else and leave writing to those who either write or die. Please. )

I wish you: silly faces.

[Winner of the Silly Face Contest by Linda Hartman at Creative Commons]

Just Go!

Years ago, I was humming and hawing at a piano improvisation class, feeling awkward and embarrassed by my lack of ability. Why did my improvisations sound so wooden, so predictable, so unsophisticated? Inside me, I screamed: I know music, I do! I can play these horrendously difficult pieces! I've performed here and sung there! Ask me questions about history and theory and composers! I'll prove to you I am a real musician!

My usually patient professor decided I was talking and explaining too much, so this not-quite 5 foot, mild-mannered woman in her 70s said, softly but with steel in her voice, "Just Go!"

I obeyed.

I wish I can report that that was my turning point, that my improvisation immediately sounded polished and sure because I dared to free my inner improviser. Nope. Till today, piano improvisation, the way I want to do it, remains elusive.

But, that moment has given me countless kicks on my behind to Just Go!

Like now. I've put off wrapping up my thoughts on the subject of fear because I want the the last post to be punchy and profound. But the comment from Douglas Florian in one of my "fear" posts reminded me of Dr. S.

So I'm going to forget about punchy and profound and just say what I need to say. (Great, now I have that John Mayer song stuck in my head!)

All right, here goes.

My biggest fears about writing:

• don't have talent
• don't have anything worthwhile to say

I am not exactly the best judge when it comes to my talent and the worthiness of what I have to say. But I have to trust that

• my share of experiences is no less worth examining than those of other writers,
  
• whatever talent I have is enough for what I have to do.

That's it. Not quite the profound thoughts that I hoped to have, but what I really, truly believe. Just like the way I've figured out that I'm no Van Cliburn, but my very own combination of talent and training and desire are perfect for the kind of music-making I've had the privilege to enjoy.

(Florian, by the way, has a new book out soon and if it's anything like his previous ones, I definitely recommend it)

What do you fear?

I fear driving in big cities; steep ski slopes; cocktail parties; incurable, unexplained, chronic diseases.

I fear being stuck and lost in the woods / ocean; attacked in the dark when I'm alone.

I fear that everyone else knows my achievements and talents are mediocre.

I fear losing my family; having no friends; being misunderstood.

These seem like a random collection of situations, but they're basically three types of fear:

• fear of pain and suffering--car crashes, diseases, hurting
• fear of humiliation
• fear of being alone, unaccepted and unloved.
  

And when I look at the basis of these three types, I realize they boil down to only this: I fear I don't have what it takes.

What can I do? I am fallible, I have weaknesses and blindspots, I am limited.

So then, what? Give up? Accept that I can't handle what life dishes out and drift along? Some days, the option seems enticing, but human beings are wired with perseverance, hope, and perhaps even a dash of extravagant optimism. So I face some fears headlong and remove myself from others.

I've driven in downtown Chicago, Kuala Lumpur, Dublin, and Melbourne (the last three using stick shift and on the other side of the road), shedding pounds in sweat.

I've picked myself up from crashing into tree stumps on my skis and being knocked over by poma lifts; falling for the first four days of a ski trip and finally skiing on the fifth.

At cocktail parties, I used to position myself behind punch bowls to avoid making small talk with strangers and have now progressed to asking people about themselves so I don't have to talk.

I am taking a self-defense class and avoid dark, unknown places (and woods and deep oceans.)

I show my love to my family and friends and hope they know that I do.

I keep doing what I do: write, play the piano, compose, sing, cook, think in the most honest and passionate way I can, and deliberately and persistently push aside thoughts of what others may think of my efforts.

Bottom line is, I believe my fear is here to stay, and may even be merited. But I have to face it by whatever ways I can. Some days, I will cower, other days, I may find courage somewhere.

Fear

Why on earth would anyone start off a new year thinking about fear? After all,

new year=hope for all things good,
fear=bad.

But wait.

1. Fear is not all bad.
2. Fear, the bad portion, is such a huge preventor of good things that we need to face it first.

Why isn't fear all bad? It prevents us from doing things that can have dire consequences. Fear of not having enough money for retirement prevents me from splurging on Milan or Paris vacations or outfitting the house with marble floors and copper trims. Fear of ending up with a broken body prevents me from bungee-jumping. Fear of bad health prevents me from eating croissants and chocolate pear tarts everyday.

You can always say that it's the desire (positive) for a secure future / health / wellness and not fear (negative) that is the reason. Perhaps. But I have a sneaky suspicion that we don't like to think of fear as a main emotion because it seems to primal. We prefer to think that we're civilized, thinking beings, not Neanderthals. But fear, whatever we think of it, is part of the equation, a significant part.

But let's get to the part that I think we can all agree on: that fear stops us from achieving our best.

Top on the list: fear of failure. Every time I sit down to write, I fear I'll come up with nothing but drivel, that it'll be derivative and shallow, that my writing is nothing but an ongoing exercise in navel-gazing. I may as well stop now and fold some laundry. At least something useful will be achieved.

Writers aren't the only ones who face this nagging, stubborn terrier-dog-with-its-teeth-on-a-shoe fear, of course. Anyone who does any work at all faces it, from the professors and carpenters to the first grader who tries a new sport. Some feel it much more acutely than others, and it seems to me the ones who care, the ones who are passionate are the ones who feel it the most.

Many writers I know care about their work. They have a deep desire to pursue their art and craft. They believe in it deeply. And they are the ones who must face their fear of failure daily.

Yet we write. We refuse to let go of the shoe. We're bigger than the terrier. We prevail.

Do we do this because it is fundamentally human to persevere? Or is it our passion that pushes us through? Are there ways to overcome fear once and for all? Or do we start every day at the same place in our position facing our fears? When we succumb, are we weakened for our next bout of tussle?

I don't know that answers exist. But I'd really like to know what form your fear of failure takes and how you've dealt with it.

Tomorrow, I'll explore the idea that all fears have one basis. Maybe.

Topics for the new year

A year has gone by; mistakes were made, experiments failed, and roads not taken.

But as we flip over the calendar, our eyes focus on the future, our minds on possibilities. A new year: I can smell the optimism in the air.


I will start off this year on this blog by exploring the topics of fear, habits, and excellence, topics I've been mulling over, not specifically for writing per se, but whose relevance is significant.

Hope you'll check back as I explore some of these ideas.

(Broken pencil by Finance Image Library, winding road by Matthew McVickar, filtering hopes by Paras from Creative Commons.)