Sans Fig Leaf
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"Know how"
8 November, 2007
I was in the office of the
student newspaper, trying to finish an article, when the friend of one
of the writers wandered in and asked, "So you know how to read music,
right?"
It seemed a simple enough question, though a bit unexpected. I had
played viola, trumpet, trombone, euphonium, bassoon (and many other
instruments on various occasions) in bands, orchestras, and
ensembles for at least nine years. I had led rehearsals and conducted
small vocal ensembles. I could plunk out parts on piano. I said, "Yes."
"So, can you show me how to find the piano button to start on?"
I was more than a little confused, and had a terrible sinking
feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pianos don't usually have buttons.
The parts you press to sound notes are called "keys." But the really
confusing part was that only a week or two before I had overheard a
conversation in which this person had rather enthusiastically agreed to
play piano for another person who was to sing at someone's wedding.
As I asked a few more questions, that sinking feeling got a lot worse.
When she had asserted that she could play piano, what she meant was
that she loved to move her hands around in the air or on a keyboard as
if she were playing while listening to recorded music. She had years
and years of experience. She loved music. She was absolutely convinced
that she had music in her soul. And of course she could play well
enough for someone's wedding. If someone would just show her which key
to put her fingers on first.
When I tell this story, people usually inquire into this person's
mental health, and I have to admit that in subsequent months other
signs came to light of just how completely divorced from reality her
mind was. The sad thing is, while I've never met another person who
made this claim about piano playing, I can't count the hundreds of
people just as clueless about creating fiction who are convinced that
they know how to write.
My favorite was a guy that was sitting in the audience of a panel I was
attending at a convention some years ago: "I already know how to write.
I always got perfect scores in spelling and grammar in school. And I
have lots of great ideas! So I've got that covered. What I need to know
is how you find an agent to shop your outline around. And maybe a
recommendation of a good accountant so I pay the taxes correctly on the
advances." Under questioning from one of the authors on the panel, he
admitted that he'd never so much as written a short story before. But
he kept repeating that bit about perfect scores on spelling and grammar.
There are so many false premises underpinning his questions, one hardly
knows where to start. Grammar and spelling are important, but being
"perfect" at them is sort of like saying you can move your hands in the
air in a perfectly convincing way while listening to someone else play
the piano. While saying you have lots of ideas is sort of the
equivalent of the gal saying that her years of experience listening to
and loving music counted as experience actually playing a musical
instrument.
Writing fiction means creating narrative threads and weaving them into
a tale that captures a reader's imagination and transports them to
another world. Spelling, grammar, ideas, and a facility for putting
words together in an interesting structure are all important to that
process, but they are only basics, and they aren't even all of the
basics. It's a complicated process, that takes a lot of time, practice,
and genuine effort: trying and failing, then trying again and perhaps
failing a little bit less badly.
That means finishing stories, showing them to people who will sincerely
tell you where they are imperfect, and taking the criticism seriously.
Then making a sincere effort to do better next time. It means never
willing to settle. There comes a point when one has to say, "It's not
perfect, but it's time to move on to the next story," but even then a
real
writer adds (perhaps under their breath), "but the next one will be
better!"
--Ray Bradbury
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