Why we do what we do
I spent the last week or so reading Howling Near Heaven: Twyla Tharp and the Reinvention of Modern Dance, by Marcia B. Siegal. Not that I'm a dancer. (I did want to be one when I was young, but when you live out in the middle of nowhere, and it's the 1960s, dance lessons are nowhere to be found.) For a while now, though, I've been interested in reading about how dancers work and I also found a great deal of inspiration in Twyla Tharp's own The Creative Habit--Learn it and use it for life.
One of the most fascinating bits in Howling Near Heaven, though, came in the Epilogue, when Siegal described being inspired by the day she had been able to watch Tharp choreograph a piece, and how one of the dancers described it as "the best of the whole time," because they were doing it "for an audience of one." Siegal then goes on to talk about how, for dancers and choreographers, the back and forth--the collaboration that is the making of a dance, the preparation to perform, is what is the real treasure. The end product, which the audience and the critic see, is set, and, while certain performances can spark a connection between dancer and audience, the making is the real treasure.
That got me to thinking about writing, which is solitary at the beginning and at the end, when it is in the hands of a reader. In between, though, there is room for that collaborative joy, as we work with our critique groups to make our work ready for an editor or agent, and as we work with the agent and editor to make the book ready for the public. Even though it may not look as if we are rehearsing, the way dancers or actors or musicians do, we are, nonetheless. It's a part of writing that can be a real joy. Plus, unlike dancers, or actors, or musicians, when we give our art over to our audience, it continues to be an interchange, as each reader takes something slightly different from what we've given them.
"Ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille."
One of the most fascinating bits in Howling Near Heaven, though, came in the Epilogue, when Siegal described being inspired by the day she had been able to watch Tharp choreograph a piece, and how one of the dancers described it as "the best of the whole time," because they were doing it "for an audience of one." Siegal then goes on to talk about how, for dancers and choreographers, the back and forth--the collaboration that is the making of a dance, the preparation to perform, is what is the real treasure. The end product, which the audience and the critic see, is set, and, while certain performances can spark a connection between dancer and audience, the making is the real treasure.
That got me to thinking about writing, which is solitary at the beginning and at the end, when it is in the hands of a reader. In between, though, there is room for that collaborative joy, as we work with our critique groups to make our work ready for an editor or agent, and as we work with the agent and editor to make the book ready for the public. Even though it may not look as if we are rehearsing, the way dancers or actors or musicians do, we are, nonetheless. It's a part of writing that can be a real joy. Plus, unlike dancers, or actors, or musicians, when we give our art over to our audience, it continues to be an interchange, as each reader takes something slightly different from what we've given them.
"Ready for my close-up now, Mr. DeMille."