Friday, August 10, 2012
In the past two weeks, I have begun at least three new stories, one of which has some great potential, and I have written two new poems. I have also begun to introduce readers to my NaNoWriMo novel from last year. This is in an effort to resume work on this piece toward finishing it, as it is my most complete work at the moment. And I have submitted nine separate pieces (including six of flash fiction and three of poetry) to three different publications. The freelance editing/writing project I accepted months ago is also finally moving forward, with a positive response from the clients so far. Even my jewelry has received my attention again after a long hiatus from the repurposing craft.
It's been a great period of productivity, and yet I feel that I am not creating enough. My current disappointment is that my house is in disarray, still the cottage of a brand-new tenant, rather than the freshly decorated home of a recently settled resident. I suppose that is always the case, that some project somewhere is unattended. Without them I would feel useless. And yet, the presence of such unfinished business makes me feel as if I am not accomplishing anything at all. Is there a happy medium in creativity? I'm beginning to think there is not.
Here's hoping the rest of you have been producing much work, as well. Feel free to share with me your projects. I'm full prepared to edge anyone from a "happy medium" toward a "super-sized ecstatic."
Friday, May 18, 2012
When we turn a corner, we are changing the story. A direct path is usually easy to see, and as long as we continue in the same direction, we are not surprising ourselves. So, what if we decide during a comfortable journey to make an abrupt turn into unknown territory? What does this say about us?
I am currently staring at the screen of my laptop, where I have my novel-in-progress up and awaiting the entry of another
page. paragraph. sentence. I’m stuck. Last time I wrote in this story, I pulled my protagonist from the main scene to disappear down the hallway and into a room to be alone. The problem is that I don’t know why she needs to be alone. And she’s not telling me.
This is only the second project in which I’ve started writing from the beginning and continued to move forward chronologically. The other story was the one I created for last year’s NaNoWriMo, and I didn’t have much of a choice in that case, with a deadline and specific goal to achieve. Usually I initially write a scene from the main character’s life that defines him or her, then I write other scenes that will happen before or after that original scene. It’s a bit scattered, but I’ve always told people that it’s how we learn about people we meet—first about the present, then maybe about something that happened to them when they were younger, then maybe about their dreams for the future. As a writing structure, it makes for a lot of editing later on, to be sure that there are no inconsistencies. But it was simply the way I wrote, until recently.
I’ve been very pleased with my progress so far on this current story, moving forward and keeping (at least my) interest throughout the first half. So, why did I send my protagonist on a sharp angle away from this path? I wonder if this says more about me than it does about my character. I’m very anxious to know what’s next and how this retreat will bring the story to the next scene. And I’m very curious what turns await me in my own life.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
We all want to be recognized for our talents, whatever they may be. Recognition can come in many forms, and it often becomes more about our own acceptance than it is about validation from another source.
Last week, my ten-year-old saxophone student revealed to me during his lesson that he did not make it into the advanced band at his school. He was very upset, which is understandable, but the comments he made regarding this disappointment were so negative—even to the point of making mild threats toward his teacher—that I had to remind him that being positive will yield better results. I didn’t tell him all the reasons I thought he probably did not get promoted to the highest level. There are at least a few. Instead, I tried to explain to him that there are many factors that go into a band director’s decisions regarding placement in different band levels. I even suggested that perhaps the director thought he would be a good motivator for his intermediate band peers, and kept him from the advanced band for that reason. When my student grumbled that he wouldn’t play in intermediate band—it was advanced band or nothing—I used an anecdote from my own youth to explain why it might be a great opportunity for him to accept the position in that band and continue to grow as a music student. After several attempts at making him see all the possible sides to the equation, he was less frustrated, but he still fell back on his claim that his teacher “always hated him.” With this comment and his attitude toward the whole issue, I offered that perhaps his negativity was something the teacher saw as a reason to keep him in a developing band. I told him that if he worked hard and kept a positive attitude, then perhaps he would prove to the band director that he was ready for the advanced band. Besides, I reminded him, when he gets to seventh grade, he’ll have a different band director, and that may put him in a better match for a teacher-student relationship. My student did soften a bit by the end of our conversation, and during the lesson, he took my constructive criticism to heart. He’s got a long way to go, but he has improved so much already, and I reminded him of all the evidence of this.
What is it that we seek as a symbol of recognition for our talents? Is it awards? Public mention? Publication of our writing? Sales of our products? Shows in galleries or performance venues? Or even just a thumbs-up on Facebook? I find that I haven’t been putting myself out there enough recently to receive the recognition I feel I am due. So, I can’t complain. But with a short story recently being published, and more opportunities in which to play my saxophone, I do receive the encouragement to continue doing what I do. What I should be taking from these validating events is a motivating nudge to push myself harder toward my goals. I’m hoping to make this happen soon.
For my saxophone student, it may be several years before he understands that it takes more than just showing up with an instrument in his hands to prove his eagerness to succeed. But I hope I can help him to continue to grow and get closer to the recognition he seeks. Whatever that may be.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The age of ten was very full of big and new experiences for me. I began going through puberty at this age, already taller than all the boys and most of the girls. I broke my leg, which was thankfully the second and last bone I broke (knock on wood), and had to spend most of the summer in a cast up to my hip. It became apparent that I had inherited my mother’s skin—specifically psoriasis—and I began the struggle of controlling a frustrating skin condition. And I began to play the saxophone.
I had always wanted to be like my sister, and so I had chosen clarinet initially as the band instrument I would play. But Vanessa, in her young wisdom, had convinced me that it would be better to have my own instrument—something that went well with clarinet. She chose the saxophone for me. I was good at the instrument from the start, picking it up rather quickly and excelling immediately. But as far as specifics, besides a few songs that will forever stick in my head as honking and percussive melodies that most likely ruined anyone’s love for the tunes (Beautiful Brown Eyes being one), I cannot remember exactly how I learned the basics. I can deduce from flipping through method books at the music publisher’s office where I work as an editor that there was a common pedagogy to the whole thing. But I can’t put myself back in that spot and remember what it was like to be a new saxophone student.
I didn’t take lessons until I was in high school, when my parents were convinced this was a path I would travel on for many years to come. I only practiced by myself at home the allotted 30 minutes per day, working on songs and scales, and I played in band class every day. Eventually, after elementary school, junior high, high school, and college concert and jazz bands, I received my degree in music composition. I have played in dozens of bands since the age of ten. I continue to play gigs pretty regularly now at the age of 38.
It had been years since I had taught any private lessons when a friend referred someone to me as a teacher. The timing was right, in that I needed the extra cash, I was working with concert band pedagogy and method books constantly at work, and the prospective student lived less than a mile away from my home. I wasn’t really prepared, however. I stumbled when asked how much I charge, although I had rehearsed the conversation beforehand, and I ended up changing my price later anyway. I was a little disappointed to find that the student was using a method book that my employer did not publish, since those were the series with which I was familiar and to which I could refer if necessary. But I was determined to make this a good experience for the student and for myself.
My student is a ten-year-old beginning band student playing alto saxophone. He is headstrong, often overconfident, and eager, but he is also very easily distracted. I could tell this from the first meeting, but I was encouraged by the fact that he had already taken drum set lessons. After learning that he had not yet been taught how to read music, as his lessons only included playing by ear, I realized that I would have to take his familiarity with rhythms and apply the tones and fingerings necessary to playing a wind instrument. I knew this would be a challenge for him, but I was up for helping him through it.
Now that we have been meeting for months, I am beginning to find what does and doesn’t work for his learning process. He is very much aware that everyone does not learn the same, which is a good thing. But I have been set back by unexpected obstacles.
Although he has drumming experience, he has trouble with staying on beat. This was not so apparent when I would clap my hand against my leg as he played, because I could be wavering in my own pulse, possibly because of his varying tempo. But when I suggested to his mother that she buy him a metronome for use on his own, and we tried employing it within the lessons, I realized there is a disconnect somewhere here. I asked him to practice only playing one pitch—quarter notes initially, then moving on to half notes, whole notes, and possibly even eighth notes. When we tried this it was satisfactory. But when he tried to read music along with a metronome, there was no regard for the tempo. He suddenly failed to hear or see the pulses as the machine clicked and flashed. I realize that this is a common issue with beginning musicians, but I was surprised by its presence in a child who had already learned to play drums.
Another issue that has given me much to think about is that my student is very easily distracted and quick to lose attention. I had realized this early on, but because of his insistence on taking on large tasks in each lesson, I moved forward while trying to take notes on what I could do to work around this. I have decided that we need to take breaks often. Sometimes, when he gets completely off track, he plays something totally different from what’s on the page. It will be subtle at first—he’ll miss a rhythm but keep going, then he stumbles on the notes. Other times, however, he’ll just keep on playing for measures and measures, but the rhythms and notes will be nowhere near what is written on the page. It’s as if he’s daydreaming in improvisation. I have to reel him back in, ask him questions about the baseball trophies he has, taking a minute or two to clear his mind before continuing on with the song. I have realized that this point arrives sooner than I would hope within the lesson, so now I know I must find a way to work on concepts and songs in even smaller chunks than we have been already. Like the television and computers that rule his life, I have to give him only flashes of information.
One thing I have discovered that is pretty impressive about my student is that he has an amazing ear for mimicking others. I had realized early on that he was memorizing what he heard others playing, rather than reading the actual notes and rhythms on the page. But I figured he was applying both the listening skills he already had and the reading skills that were new to him. When I decided to try something fun in between the monotonous and grueling playing of concert songs, I offered that he should mimic what I played, but without being able to see my fingers. After a fumbling first attempt—starting on the right note, but getting tripped up a couple of times before repeating the entire phrase—he nailed every single pattern I gave him. I started on different notes, I played different rhythms, and I mixed up arpeggios with scale patterns. He nailed every one. I was amazed. Although I knew that he had learned the drums by ear, I was thoroughly impressed that he was applying pitches and fingerings to this exercise without any effort. I plan to use this sort of exercise much more in the future, ramping up the difficulty and testing him further each time.
It has been no surprise to me that the process of teaching fascinates me. This has always been true. But I had been afraid for years to attempt to teach students, for fear I would have not enough to offer them in order to propel their talents forward. Because I took the challenge on this one student, I have been really enjoying the experience—one in which I am both teaching and learning. I hope that this continues for a long time to come, and that I can possibly add more students to my lesson schedule.