I read a lot. Novels. biographies, news, reviews, box backs. I'm a reflexive reader- put some print in front of me, and by gum, I'll give it a shot. Doesn't even have to be in a recognizable- to me- language. Whazzat, Sanskrit? Lemme see.
I also write a lot.
Though- heh- not so much here.
Which sends me reading- a lot- about writers. I am very interested in how other people do this. In general, looking for a better way to do what I am trying to do.
Outlining, dealing with themes big and small. Where do people write, when, how?
Something I haven't read about- although I am sure it's out there- music.
What sort of thing do people play when, as, they write?
So. Here you go.
I find that if I listen to something strong, dramatic- classical, in my case, is always a temptation, but this applies to pop music as well- I get sucked into the music and stop working. Just sort of let my thoughts drift along. Relaxing. But not writing.
If, on the other hand, I go for musical wall paper? Background white noise, non invasive stuff- new agey blends of drums and digeridoos and such- it so annoys me that all I write are terse, annoyed clips.
I once found that I had written "This music fucking sucks" right into a script.
I like to tailor what I am listening to to the type of thing I am working on.
Currently- as I blog, and I will restart it once I get into the writing, the soundtrack to the late, great TV series "Thirtysomething".
There is a clip of the theme composer- and the man who wrote a lot of the music for the series- W.G. Walden- talking about how he came up with the now iconic main theme.
On YouTube if you want to search for it.
Long story short- nothing was working. They were deep enough into producing episodes that he was writing incidental music. As the producers were considering using a melody from a Broadway show, he started noodling with a piece he wrote for a scene where two of the leads are working out a bump in their sex lives. They liked it, and asked for an expansion, and had plans to orchestrate it, but they ran out of time. So they sped it up slightly, and that was that.
Lots of creative stuff comes in to being like that. Someone was trying for something else, just goofing around, and whammo.
Applies to writing, too.
The Thirtysomething soundtrack, tonight, because I am writing a Thirtysomething episode.
Not an actual episode. A story that would have been a perfect episode of the series, though. If you ever watched it, that combination of closely observed life moments dramatized with humor and a lot of, well, indulgence.
I was a huge fan of the series, when it aired. Because I was at about that age- when shit starts to get real. You've gotten through your schooling- or at least anything short of graduate school. You've been working for a while, been through dating, relationships, break ups. And things are starting to close the fuck in.
The job has turned into a career, the casual relationship has turned into a marriage, the marriage is turning into kids, nine to five, and a living room filled with Legos and baby toys and detritus that never seems to actually get _cleaned_.
You're hardly ever alone, hardly ever seem to have time to yourself, and there is always something stressing. A bill to be paid, a debt you have to get into, etc. Things that you _swear_ that you did not mean to come out that way seem to _always_ come out that way. You're in fights - serious, with stomping and yelling and crying- with no idea how the hell they started.
The cute little apartment has turned into a cute little house with dry rot on the deck- and when you moved in, you discovered that the prior owner's kid had jammed something into every lower plug receptacle in every outlet in the house. Oh, and they took the goddamn water heater with them, which left you with a slow gas leak. Which you did not discover for a year, when you had to replace the water heater.
Oh.
And you now know why it is _called_ a hot water heater.
Anyway.
You spend a lot of time thinking... what. The. Actual. Fuck.
What the actual fuck is all this shit?
Your default mood is now... exactly what you never expected. Vaguely pissy, with occasional showers of fun.
You start to appreciate friendships more than ever- and some of them are surprising. That asshole from the office next to yours is suddenly in your living room every weekend, or you are in his. Movie nights and game nights- the sort of thing you may have scoffed at, when you were younger- now very important stress relieving events.
And you start to think back on earlier parts of your life with nostalgia.
This period in a life is- I think- probably the first time you get a taste of that. Younger- you're looking back on things you did as a kid, and you are still close enough to most of that to see it... if not clearly, certainly without a lot of fog.
Now, you're far enough away from first crushes and shit that happened in study hall and all of those people. And long enough way from living under your parent's roof, or at least so heavily under their thumb, that all of that starts to become very hazy.
And nostalgia tells you that life was _so_much better back then. Free of all the responsibility.
Nostalgia is a trap. It sucks you into an illusory, mis-remembered past, and tempts you into living your life in the past. Which cannot work.
Thirtysomething is when you figure that out.
That long lost love. That halcyon time when you were young and poor and living hand to mouth together? You smile about it, privately. Use the memories as a balm. For when the dishwasher dies, or something goes down the toilet that ought not to have. When you're facing the fact that your puppy is now 10 years old, and not as mobile as he once was.
You start to think that this was, maybe, something more than you thought it was.
There is always a reason for that love having been lost. A good reason. Nostalgia makes you forget about that stuff, and makes you take your eye off the current ball.
The series dealt with all of that, and it echoed. One of the characters, Elliot Weston. God, I hated Elliot when the show started. Terrible man child goof. Had a nice wife, two young kids. He and his best friend had started a business together. And I watched him fuck it all up.
Nostalgia. Led to him having affairs, getting separated from his wife, losing his family and crashing his business.
Elliot drifted a lot.
And then?
He figured it out. Who was important, what was important. And Elliot- without seeming to change a jot- blossomed into the best character on the show.
He romanced his wife- having realized that she was _the_ love of his life. He patched things up with his friends. And he figured out that he fucking hated his job. He was _great_ at it. Even as he was screwing up, his bosses loved what he did. But he didn't. So, just as it seemed like he was back on his game, he walked away from it.
Because he _was_ back on his game. Just not that game.
Sure the show was indulgent. Whiney. Well off white people, as my friend Nancy used to say. Bitching about the dry cleaning and the takeout and the brakes on the Volvo. Ermigod.
But kids? At that age- best appreciated once we've gone through it- we're all that whiney, all that self involved.
Doesn't matter whether you are rich, poor, black, white, gay, straight, what have you.
Part of the maturation process.
Which, once I get done writing this- and listening to the music for the fun of it. Because, as it turns out, I can remember the episodes that these tracks cued and layed under- I am going to get back to my story.
The story?
I'll get into that later. But the story is a page right out of Thirtysomething. People with their heads turned so far backward that they cannot see where they are going. Armand, retired, and missing his late wife, sitting around doing nothing. Laverne, thinking her best years are behind her. Carrie, so focused on the fuck ups in her past that she cannot plan for the future. I've written a stupidly expansive outline- which I think I have written about before, the more extensive my outlines, the greater the chance that I will never actually write the story. I get sort of bored, writing it after all of that. But I think I can peel this off the outline and into an actual script.
Mostly because I have fallen for my characters. A good sign. I _want_ to write cranky, arthritic Armand. I want to write sassy and affectionate Laverne and sweet but uncertain Carrie.
This has drifted, as usual. From the importance of music in writing, to the importance of the music I am actually listening to.
Typical.
Let me wrestle this thing back to the ground and come up with a stirring conclusion.
The reason music is important when I write- and I think every writer has something like this- is because it obliterates the background.
The AC running. The toilet that runs a bit once flushed. The snoring from the next room. What have you.
It obliterates the background and replaces it with an aural carpet. If carefully chosen, one which underlines and supports the writing. Not too powerful so as to suck you away from the task at hand. not so weak as to lose purpose.
It lets me slide into the world I am creating, the story I am telling, and get it out of my head.
The soundtrack has finished the first run. I enjoyed listening to it as a thing unto itself.
Now it goes into the work at hand.
Be seeing you.
