Are you a creative? Ever think about the differences in the creative process for different types of artists? Some types of artwork lend themselves to constant editing. Others never even come to fruition.
In this blog I talk about my interaction with both screenwriter and artist friends of mine, and how the creative process specific to their art form influences how they work.
Read on and let me know what you think in the comments below.
Recently I was talking to a friend of mine, Russell Sharman, who works as a professional screenwriter. We were having an honest conversation about what it’s like to be “an artist.”
“I feel like I’m an architect who is constantly designing buildings that never get built,” he said.
My ignorance of the film/tv industry meant I didn’t immediately grasp the weight of his statement. Thankfully, he saw the quizzical look on my face and went on to explain.
As a screenwriter, Russell writes scripts for film and television that are (with any luck) purchased by studios. It’s a great arrangement – Russell does something creative he enjoys, the studio gets a script they value, and Russell gets paid. He then goes on to working on his next project. However, despite the fact that the studio bought the script, he elaborated, there’s a good chance that Russell’s script will never be made into a show.
As a performing artist myself, this realization came as a bit of a shock. That shock led to this blog.
“Sure, I get enjoyment from finding an eloquent solution to a dramatic problem,” he assured me. But he went on to explain that his real satisfaction comes from seeing the realization of his works (be them on screen or on stage). And that’s an unfortunate circumstance, given how rarely that happens.
Over the next few days I stewed on this truth, and it hit me: creations of screenwriters seem like a unique art form in that they’re often never fully wrought. Despite the countless hours he spends writing scripts, Russell’s creations (and, likely, the majority of the scripts of even the most successful screenwriters) don’t tend to materialize in the form of produced shows.
As a singer songwriter, I rarely have this problem. I write music and lyrics which, when combined and performed, become the realized product: a song. All I have to do to “realize” the art form at its simplest is play and sing the song to myself. I have that luxury.
And even that description seems to suggest that the process is more fragmented than it is, as if it’s some process of writing and THEN enjoying.
But the truth is, it’s more like one motion. See, I tend to pick up the guitar, play one of my old songs or something else I’m working on, and then “stumble” into something new. That “stumbling” often occurs by reaching for what I think is the right chord or note and, well, being wrong.
Weird right?
In playing the wrong thing, in making what is essentially a mistake, I sometimes realize, “Wait, this is interesting.”
All of the sudden, I’m playing a chord progression that I’ve never heard before. And even though it wasn’t what I intended, it turns out to be surprisingly pleasing to my own ear. I play it over and over, enjoying the simple relationship of the two or three chords. Then, at some point, my brain tends to “gift” me little ideas of what the melody could be. I have no idea where that comes from. But ultimately I “stumble” onto a melody that just seems right. From that moment on, I can’t help but hum or mumble the new melody as I play the chords.
It’s mysterious.
It’s never clear where these ideas come from, but when they hit (and when they work), they immediately become little cherished possessions.
That’s why, when people ask “So Cecil, how do you write your songs?” I rarely have a good, easy answer for them. I have a feeling most creatives feel this way.
SIDE NOTE: It’s at this point I have to stress something for all you songwriters out there. In the words of any experienced gamer: SAVE YOUR GAME.
More explicitly, when you stumble onto something exciting, RECORD IT. Thankfully nearly every phone these days has some sort of voice memo function. Use it. Even tell yourself what chords you’re playing, on what fret, and if you’re using a capo (guitar players). Because if you get a phone call in the next moment, or you have to go to work, you’ll likely forget what you did by the time you get back to your instrument. And losing a thought (especially when you knew it was special) is WORSE than never having had it. All that “having loved and lost” stuff DOES NOT APPLY to songwriting.
Ok, back to the crux of my idea. It’s in these creative moments that I’m actually “experiencing” a form of the manifested product, even when it’s simply the movement between two chords.
And in this way, I get a very real, visceral pleasure from what I’m playing. It’s not some later step. Rather, it happens IMMEDIATELY. To be honest, that’s why I do it.
The pleasure is two-fold: there’s the intellectual joy of discovering something new and magical and fitting (kind of like what Russell’s elegant solution to a dramatic problem). Yes, that joy feels something like weaving through a dark wood only to discover a little clearing, a brook, and the dappled sun shining down through some beautiful broken clouds. Or perhaps like getting that puzzle piece that fits so nicely and snug-like.
But the other half of the pleasure is this: the actual sounds contained within that discovery. Not sure how many people identify with this, but I get a real mental and emotional pleasure from the intervals achieved in a unique melody (intervals are the distance between notes in a melody, or the notes in a chord) and how the intervals of the melody interact with the chords I’m playing beneath it. It’s as if the sounds themselves tickle my brain like nothing else can. I can only hope other musicians and songwriters feel the same way. Because this sensation (and the fact that I experience it often) feels like a blessing. Not sure what my life would be like without it.
I’ve found that acting can be similar, in this way. I’ve had moments, in speaking the lines over and over until the actual sound and delivery of them is its own pleasure center. Katas in martial arts, or even dancing, can feel the same. The thrill of the form itself – happening as it’s performed.
However, there’s a potential pitfall in enjoying too much the work that you’ve created. Dom, my producer and good friend in Nashville, describes it as “Demo Love.”
The concept is this: you write something, you enjoy it, you get emotionally attached to it, and then you stop it from growing.
Ever work with someone on a creative project? You have lots of fun and exciting ideas and at the end of the day, you drive home giddy with the thrill of what you’ve made. Over the next few days, your excitement wanes a bit, and it’s replaced with a more critical eye – one that is able to be objective about your piece of art. You are honest with yourself about what works in your project and what doesn’t. You start looking forward to the next time you’ll meet your creative partner to work, simply because you see clearly how to move forward and improve upon what was already a great start.
However, when you arrive, your partner doesn’t want to change much at all. In fact, it seems that they’ve fallen in love with what you did the first day. They’re ready to call it good and move on to something new.
This difference in approach can be frustrating for creatives, and obviously there’s some middle ground to be found. Never editing or improving upon a piece of art seems rather foolish. But so does never finishing anything for the worry that you haven’t yet perfected it. Still, there’s something to be said for taking a critical (and as non-biased as possible) eye to your own work.
This is the same concept conveyed in the oft-quoted Faulkner phrase: Kill your darlings. But what does that mean?
Well, as Ruthanne Reid (content provider for thewritepractice.com) writes, “ We love [our creations], to the point that we almost don’t care if those bits are clear to readers or not. We love them, and we want to keep them.”
I feel like songwriters might be even more susceptible to this pitfall, simply because we are so quickly able to “realize” our works – to get that immediate enjoyment from what is essentially a finished product.
I’ve certainly experienced this – this tendency to love a song a bit too much. But, just as it heals all wounds, time seems to solve this pitfall as well.
Try this:
Record your song.
Put it away for a week. Try to forget about it. Work on something else.
After a week, come back to it and listen again.
You’ll hear all sorts of little mistakes in timing, incomplete melody ideas, and notes sung off-key. You’ll wonder how you missed them the first time. Don’t be too hard on yourself – everyone experiences this. There’s something so glowing about the euphoria of first-creation that we tend to become blind to the inadequacies of our work. Perhaps it’s a bit like falling in love.
The key, though, is to look with fresh eyes and ears. Listen to the parts that work and get excited that they STILL work, one week later. That really IS something. And listen to what doesn’t work as well, and realize that the “not working” is not a shortcoming. Rather, it’s a chance to devise a more memorable chord or melody or lyric for that particular section.
Alternatively, that time off may make you realize that enough actually IS enough. Take painting for example. My mother is a watercolorist. In talking to her about this concept, she emphasized that in painting, you really CAN go too far. And in painting, there’s no “undo” button.
“If you go into it too much, try to perfect it too much, it loses something,” she explained. “The paints do things on their own that you don’t plan,” she continued, “and you don’t always want to lose that.”
This seemed similar to experiences I’ve had in recording. One take may be more technically “correct,” but is missing some intangible in comparison to another take that had more emotion, more “vibe.” Yeah, I said vibe – it’s a great word for when you’re talking about something intangible.
All that to say, different art forms have their own drawbacks, and it’s been fun for me to meditate a bit upon how artists of other media work, their processes, and how songwriting (with it’s immediate gratification) can encourage the best and the worst in me as an artist.
In the end, though, time does seem to sort out what has merit and what doesn’t – whether the work is on a canvas, the page, or notes on the staff.
So, let your songs sit. Let your work wait. Give your paintings some space.
You’re actually letting your brain filter out all that wonderful emotion that makes creating so addicting, not because you shouldn’t feel that, but so that you can see your work for what it really is, and if it really stands on its own outside of you.
And for those editors out there who NEVER want to stop refining – I feel you. Don’t feel like there’s something wrong with you in striving for perfection (especially if you’re enjoying the process). Remember, however, two things. Firstly, at some point you have to stop working on a piece of art and release it for the general public. And secondly, there’s a famous quote that just might make you feel better:
A work of art is never finished, just abandoned.
~ Cecil
ps – I’m supporting myself (and releasing one, studio quality song per month for, well, as far into the future as I can see), by generous listeners and readers like you. Check out my Patreon page – a simple $5 pledge gets you free downloads of each monthly song, as well as exclusive content (song ideas I’m working on, updates on shows, news from traveling, and more). It allows me to take you along on this journey I’m on, as a full-time recording artist. Every little bit helps, so thank you in advance for your consideration!
