She Likes Everything She Sees

Anyone who knows me knows I love music. Not the way most people “love” music, as in “turn it up, I love this song.” No, for me it’s more like completely losing myself in music.

I can’t just “listen” to a piece of music and nod “that’s nice.” Just as a painting is created from thousands and thousands of brush strokes that all come together to make a picture, a piece of music is created from thousands and thousands of notes that come together to make a melody, and this affects the way I hear music.

When I was a kid, someone gave me a paint-by-number kit. (It was likely someone who felt sorry for me because of my total lack of artistic ability.) The picture was of horses, and when I opened the box and stared at the contents, all I saw was a board with sections drawn on it, each numbered, all mishmashed together. Outside of a simple outline that I knew was horses because I’d seen the box cover, my eyes couldn’t perceive how all these loopy curves and odd shapes would materialize into the picture I saw on the box.

“Just wait,” my aunt assured me. “You’ll see.”

She put the brush in my hand and opened the first container of paint. “Do all the ones first,” she instructed. I did. An hour later, I had a board with numbered sections, all mishmashed together, with some of the sections colored in. Instead of sorting out how the painting would appear, my eye grew even more confused and unable to form a clear vision of what would happen. Cue “frustration.” Obviously, there was something wrong with me.

“Just wait,” my aunt assured me. “You’ll see.” She opened the second container of paint. “Do the twos now.” Eventually, as I did the threes and fours, I saw the shapes coming together to form horses. Fascinated now, I hurried to do more of the colors so I could watch the entire picture emerge.

When it was finished, I stared at it for what seemed like hours. (Yes, I am easily amused.) First, I looked at the overall picture, then I focused on one color, searching and finding the areas that contributed to a section and gave it dimension. As I visually picked apart my creation, I could easily see how each tiny section of color, no matter how small, was part of the overall result and contributed to it in its own way.

As I turned my newfound understanding over in my mind, I began to wonder what would have happened if I had left out a color, or even done something so seemingly insignificant as to leave a tiny section uncolored, or used the wrong color in a section. The overall result would have still been pleasing, but it wouldn’t have been as complete as it could have been had I done it “right.”

I think of that experience now, and how it correlates to how I hear music. Music, for me, is layered. I pick out each instrument, listen to how each artist interprets the piece of music in his or her own way, and how it all comes together to make a pleasing whole. If an instrument is not all it could be or a note is dropped, everything changes, usually imperceptibly. It’s still a nice piece of music but the subtle flaw jerked me out of the experience for a second.

My preferred music genre is contemporary jazz. I love the smooth melodies and how each track meshes with the others perfectly to create an experience I get lost in. Add a good vocalist and I am in heaven. The nuances and fluidity of the human voice balanced with each instrument, perfectly played, is pure ecstasy for me.

Writing is like this. For a reader to fully experience a story, the story must have layers. Each layer of the story must be clear, concise, and articulate. Each layer has to mesh with the other layers. We plot and outline and think and jot down notes, building our story the way we see it in our minds.

If even the smallest detail is left out or ignored, the overall result can still be an almost-pleasing whole. However, as writers, we strive for “pleasing,” not “almost-pleasing.” We spend precious time searching for the right word. We spend hours rewording a sentence to make it perfect, only to dump that sentence somewhere in the editing process. We spellcheck, and spellcheck, and spellcheck, praying we catch every slip-up. In the end, all we can do it hold our breath and push the baby out of the nest to fall or fly on its own. With any luck at all, it soars right into the hands of readers and sings its little heart out.

If we’ve done our job right, the reader’s experience is similar to listening to beautiful music or viewing an extraordinary painting. If we’ve done our job right, the reader is mesmerized by how our story comes together. Pieces form layers, layers move the reader from scene to scene, character to character, occurrence to occurrence, until the reader is so involved in the story that they become a part of it. The characters feel like friends (or enemies) and the reader’s heart becomes inextricably tied to the hearts in the story.

When I hear a beautiful piece of music, I don’t want it to end. I cling to the last notes until they fade to total silence. In the stillness, I replay the melodies in my mind, savoring every single tone, every nuance, everything that made the music unique. I replay it, and find the second listening experience is even more delicious than the first because I can discover more things in it.

This is what I want for my readers. To cling to the last page, bereft at having reached the end, wishing they could forget the story completely so they could read it again for the first time. I want that reader to feel such a loss at hitting “The End” that she determinedly turns back to page one and starts over.

This is what I’ll never stop working for. I’ll continue to use music to learn about layers, to remind me to mix the pieces in a balanced way so that the overall effect is pleasing to the eye and rockets straight to the heart. I’ll use music to remind myself that a successful musician surrounds himself or herself with everything that brings out the best in him or her. In this way, I’ll construct my stories using music as I work so I don’t forget how important each tiny piece, no matter how insignificant it may seem, breathes life into my work.