some thoughts on Wynton Marsalis
and some quotes too . . .
The bottom line is practice "something" every moment you can. Don't just sit around and wait for something to happen; that same something is waiting on you.
Something. Practice something. Something, anything, anytime. It's no longer enough to simply stare out windows while thinking about the story, as I've placated myself for most of the last year, and I'm moving away from that. I've bellyached enough on this topic, so I will only post WM's words here as a reminder to myself.
No one will teach you how to play. (...) You might ask me, "What did Art Blakey teach you?" And I'd tell you "nothing," at least in the way you probably meant the question. Art didn't say, "play your scales" or "play a G on this." You'd start playing, and he would tell you something like, "You need to be more physical." Or he would com in and say, "You're bullshitting." That was your lesson. What did that mean? Stop bullshitting. That's Art. That's what he taught you. You watched him and he played with maximum intensity all the time.
"Stop bullshitting" and "maximum intensity." I've had several conversations this passed year with Bill where I've wanted to punch him, but that he was telling the truth. I say I'm a writer, I want to be a writer, but I'm not being a writer. I'm bullshitting myself. And that might be only part of what Art's referring to, but I believe it's an important part. And so when I return to the madness of being a school-teacher, I have to make sure to keep the writer in me afloat.
As for the "maximum intensity" part? I wrote about P falling into fits when she uses her magic. That was probably one of the hardest things for me to write. My fingers trembled over the keys, but I had to do it. This first scene was okay, as P's emotional reaction to it is still pretty low-key. It's when she starts having full-gale breakdowns that it will be difficult. But the response I got even to just the little scene were unlike anything I'd gotten before. Clearly, I need to do more of that. But sustained emotional maximum intensity dulls the story. So, sustained quality maximum intensity then.
Don't stand up and play clichés all the time, all night, the same patterns. Use your ingenuity and your creativity. To do this, you must develop some objectives. When you have objectives, when you understand what you're trying to do, then you're free to try things when you play.
~and~
When root objectives are lost, it becomes impossible to give birth to new things.
And what are my objectives? I've had that question asked to me several times now within the last couple of months, and there are many levels that I think these objectives address. The over-arching everything objective. Why write?And then, Who to write for? In what style? For what purpose? Which isn't necessarily the same as "why."
I don't know that I know the answer to all those questions. Why? Because I have to. It's never been more clear to me as this summer, after I've been away from it for so long. I'm just not a Teacher. At least, not a teacher for the kind of school I would teach in, if I were to fully pursue that path. And therein lies my problem. I could be a Teacher. I know that. If I follow anything passionately it has all of me. And the school I fell into is exactly the kind of place a small group of idealistic future educators in Larry Bowen's class spoke of finding, leading, and teaching.
But I'm cheating on my bigger love, and I can't do that. I can't cheat, not even on my life's occupation.
How's that for loyalty?
The bottom line is practice "something" every moment you can. Don't just sit around and wait for something to happen; that same something is waiting on you.
Something. Practice something. Something, anything, anytime. It's no longer enough to simply stare out windows while thinking about the story, as I've placated myself for most of the last year, and I'm moving away from that. I've bellyached enough on this topic, so I will only post WM's words here as a reminder to myself.
No one will teach you how to play. (...) You might ask me, "What did Art Blakey teach you?" And I'd tell you "nothing," at least in the way you probably meant the question. Art didn't say, "play your scales" or "play a G on this." You'd start playing, and he would tell you something like, "You need to be more physical." Or he would com in and say, "You're bullshitting." That was your lesson. What did that mean? Stop bullshitting. That's Art. That's what he taught you. You watched him and he played with maximum intensity all the time.
"Stop bullshitting" and "maximum intensity." I've had several conversations this passed year with Bill where I've wanted to punch him, but that he was telling the truth. I say I'm a writer, I want to be a writer, but I'm not being a writer. I'm bullshitting myself. And that might be only part of what Art's referring to, but I believe it's an important part. And so when I return to the madness of being a school-teacher, I have to make sure to keep the writer in me afloat.
As for the "maximum intensity" part? I wrote about P falling into fits when she uses her magic. That was probably one of the hardest things for me to write. My fingers trembled over the keys, but I had to do it. This first scene was okay, as P's emotional reaction to it is still pretty low-key. It's when she starts having full-gale breakdowns that it will be difficult. But the response I got even to just the little scene were unlike anything I'd gotten before. Clearly, I need to do more of that. But sustained emotional maximum intensity dulls the story. So, sustained quality maximum intensity then.
Don't stand up and play clichés all the time, all night, the same patterns. Use your ingenuity and your creativity. To do this, you must develop some objectives. When you have objectives, when you understand what you're trying to do, then you're free to try things when you play.
~and~
When root objectives are lost, it becomes impossible to give birth to new things.
And what are my objectives? I've had that question asked to me several times now within the last couple of months, and there are many levels that I think these objectives address. The over-arching everything objective. Why write?And then, Who to write for? In what style? For what purpose? Which isn't necessarily the same as "why."
I don't know that I know the answer to all those questions. Why? Because I have to. It's never been more clear to me as this summer, after I've been away from it for so long. I'm just not a Teacher. At least, not a teacher for the kind of school I would teach in, if I were to fully pursue that path. And therein lies my problem. I could be a Teacher. I know that. If I follow anything passionately it has all of me. And the school I fell into is exactly the kind of place a small group of idealistic future educators in Larry Bowen's class spoke of finding, leading, and teaching.
But I'm cheating on my bigger love, and I can't do that. I can't cheat, not even on my life's occupation.
How's that for loyalty?