Ah, the blank page. Here it sits before me on a Saturday morning, staring back, mute and smug. I've found that Blank Page has a way of activating my inner-grade-9 student, who doggedly starts trying to stack simple, uninteresting ideas together in order to build a plain little philosophical fortress. Like the Brutalist architecture of Soviet Russia, the fortress may stand up to the elements, but it's a bit of an eyesore.
Thankfully, that inner grade-9 student is not the sole writer on staff – he's just often the first responder to the blank page. On days when I'm a little more courageous (a.k.a. smarter), I'll let Mr. Impulsive blab for a while, and I'll dutifully take down what he says. Mr. Impulsive is sort of the mad fool of the Writing Staff: much of what he says at first seems nonsensical, but upon later reflection, there's usually a good helping of substance in what he says. Usually.
The other great by-product of letting Mr. Impulsive speak (without the Thought Police shutting him down, of course), is that the rest of the writing staff usually won't start tossing in ideas until they're sure that Mr. Impulsive isn't being gagged by the Thought Police. They're a little cowardly, as well as a little arrogant. They seem to figure that if a whack-job like Mr. Impulsive can be given voice, then surely the real writing staff can do it even better.
At this point, it's easy to listen to Dr. Philosopher. He's quick to speak and fairly eloquent, but has an annoying habit of keeping to generalities and spouting principles. Loves the sound of his own voice, too. I think I hired him in my teenage years when I was listening to a lot of Rush. These days, I try to use his contributions very sparingly.
No one likes to hear a textbook sing, least of all me.
Chances are, one staff writer will hold sway at this point, partly determined by the musical ideas (if any) underpinning the mood of the piece, partly determined by the vagaries of my emotional state. The Activist tends to rail against social injustice of various forms, and often speaks in bitter irony. The Satyr is much more jovial, yet visceral - tangling lust, humour, desire and self-deprecation. The Loser is surprisingly resilient and talkative, like the drunk at the bar – he has nothing left to lose by speaking his mind, and he has a very long memory. Probably the most recent- and most shy - voice at the table is the Observer. This one simply recounts what his senses show him. This is a voice I regret not having paid more attention to as a younger writer (drowned out by Dr. Philosopher at the writers' meetings, I'd guess), but try to listen to more now. Tom Waits, for example, is a master of using this kind of voice, as in:
Cuff links and hub caps
Trophies and paperbacks
It's good transportation
But the brakes aren't so hot
Neck tie and boxing gloves
This jackknife is rusted
You can pound that dent out
On the hood
A tinker, a tailor
A soldier's things
His rifle, his boots full of rocks
Oh and this one is for bravery
And this one is for me
And everything's a dollar
In this box
A Soldier's Things, Tom Waits
A seemingly neutral collection of observations ends up painting an incredibly vivid portrait...and because he left the listener to put all the pieces together herself, it carries that much more of a kick.
There are still a couple of spots on the writing staff that I'd like to fill, but have not yet managed to. The Happy Guy posting, for example, has proven impossible to fill convincingly. There are plenty of things in my life that contribute to my happiness, but I'm damned if I can write well about them. Years ago, I had a girlfriend who seemed a little disturbed that I could pour my heart out in lyrics about previous relationships (gone wrong), but had nothing to say about her in song. I tried to explain that I was deliriously happy, and if I started writing about her, it indicated the relationship was in big trouble and she'd probably start to find me quite dislikable. Her response was to write beautiful poetry about how cheated she felt in that arrangement. In desperation, I got Dr. Philosopher to fill in the Happy Guy position for one song. You can guess the results. I did mention that's a former relationship, right?
A couple of last thoughts about the writing committee: I stumbled onto all of these 'voices' over time, and I hope that I – and any other writers – remain open to new voices joining the staff. The voices appear without notice, and can fall mute just as suddenly, but perhaps a key art to writing is the art of keeping the communication lines open to all these voices, and listening keenly. I hazard to suggest selecting which voices to hear, but too much conscious effort has a way of drowning out all voices, save Mr. Grade 9. Funny, that. The other thought concerns writer's envy. Sure, it's natural to wish I could write like Tom Waits or Jeff Buckley or dozens of other greats – but if I actually did write like Tom Waits, I'd be even worse off than I am now. A major component of great writing is having one's own distinct voice. If Tom Waits wrote just like Bob Dylan (one of Waits' influences), nobody would have heard of Tom Waits. You have to write from your own voice, flaws and all. In fact, flaws are necessary...well, unless you're J.S. Bach, who didn't have to write much of his own lyrics, anyway.
Thankfully, that inner grade-9 student is not the sole writer on staff – he's just often the first responder to the blank page. On days when I'm a little more courageous (a.k.a. smarter), I'll let Mr. Impulsive blab for a while, and I'll dutifully take down what he says. Mr. Impulsive is sort of the mad fool of the Writing Staff: much of what he says at first seems nonsensical, but upon later reflection, there's usually a good helping of substance in what he says. Usually.
The other great by-product of letting Mr. Impulsive speak (without the Thought Police shutting him down, of course), is that the rest of the writing staff usually won't start tossing in ideas until they're sure that Mr. Impulsive isn't being gagged by the Thought Police. They're a little cowardly, as well as a little arrogant. They seem to figure that if a whack-job like Mr. Impulsive can be given voice, then surely the real writing staff can do it even better.
At this point, it's easy to listen to Dr. Philosopher. He's quick to speak and fairly eloquent, but has an annoying habit of keeping to generalities and spouting principles. Loves the sound of his own voice, too. I think I hired him in my teenage years when I was listening to a lot of Rush. These days, I try to use his contributions very sparingly.
No one likes to hear a textbook sing, least of all me.
Chances are, one staff writer will hold sway at this point, partly determined by the musical ideas (if any) underpinning the mood of the piece, partly determined by the vagaries of my emotional state. The Activist tends to rail against social injustice of various forms, and often speaks in bitter irony. The Satyr is much more jovial, yet visceral - tangling lust, humour, desire and self-deprecation. The Loser is surprisingly resilient and talkative, like the drunk at the bar – he has nothing left to lose by speaking his mind, and he has a very long memory. Probably the most recent- and most shy - voice at the table is the Observer. This one simply recounts what his senses show him. This is a voice I regret not having paid more attention to as a younger writer (drowned out by Dr. Philosopher at the writers' meetings, I'd guess), but try to listen to more now. Tom Waits, for example, is a master of using this kind of voice, as in:
Cuff links and hub caps
Trophies and paperbacks
It's good transportation
But the brakes aren't so hot
Neck tie and boxing gloves
This jackknife is rusted
You can pound that dent out
On the hood
A tinker, a tailor
A soldier's things
His rifle, his boots full of rocks
Oh and this one is for bravery
And this one is for me
And everything's a dollar
In this box
A Soldier's Things, Tom Waits
A seemingly neutral collection of observations ends up painting an incredibly vivid portrait...and because he left the listener to put all the pieces together herself, it carries that much more of a kick.
There are still a couple of spots on the writing staff that I'd like to fill, but have not yet managed to. The Happy Guy posting, for example, has proven impossible to fill convincingly. There are plenty of things in my life that contribute to my happiness, but I'm damned if I can write well about them. Years ago, I had a girlfriend who seemed a little disturbed that I could pour my heart out in lyrics about previous relationships (gone wrong), but had nothing to say about her in song. I tried to explain that I was deliriously happy, and if I started writing about her, it indicated the relationship was in big trouble and she'd probably start to find me quite dislikable. Her response was to write beautiful poetry about how cheated she felt in that arrangement. In desperation, I got Dr. Philosopher to fill in the Happy Guy position for one song. You can guess the results. I did mention that's a former relationship, right?
A couple of last thoughts about the writing committee: I stumbled onto all of these 'voices' over time, and I hope that I – and any other writers – remain open to new voices joining the staff. The voices appear without notice, and can fall mute just as suddenly, but perhaps a key art to writing is the art of keeping the communication lines open to all these voices, and listening keenly. I hazard to suggest selecting which voices to hear, but too much conscious effort has a way of drowning out all voices, save Mr. Grade 9. Funny, that. The other thought concerns writer's envy. Sure, it's natural to wish I could write like Tom Waits or Jeff Buckley or dozens of other greats – but if I actually did write like Tom Waits, I'd be even worse off than I am now. A major component of great writing is having one's own distinct voice. If Tom Waits wrote just like Bob Dylan (one of Waits' influences), nobody would have heard of Tom Waits. You have to write from your own voice, flaws and all. In fact, flaws are necessary...well, unless you're J.S. Bach, who didn't have to write much of his own lyrics, anyway.