A few nights back, I was having a few beers with a writer friend. We were talking about current projects and comparing our output. (Erm, as one does.) I mentioned that the totality of my Halferne universe (three complete novels, three or four half-finished novels, and a lot of rough sketches and random scenes) now approaches 575,000 words, with the caveat that I’m also counting the 30,000-word non-canon pantser novel I’m playing with on the side.

This concept completely baffled him, and I was baffled that he was baffled. So, let me explain.

Between being a member of a half-dozen local bands over the past twenty years, running Indy In-Tune, having my largest circle of friends grow from one of those two things, and my daughter being the first-chair sax player, you can say I’m pretty in touch with the musician mindset. For the last few years, since support for live local music dried up, I’ve put my energy into writing and have been forming a new circle of friends as a result. Now, granted, I’ve interviewed hundreds of bands at all levels of the game, and I’ve seen all types of personalities, but there are some common traits that all musicians share.  When I crossed into writing, I noticed that writers approach their craft and interact with one another very differently from musicians. At first, I thought I had the idea of “being a writer” all wrong, but now I’m realizing I just approach writing with something of a musician’s mindset, and I think it’s the writers who aren’t getting it.

I try to spend at least an hour writing every day.  It might be a blog post, a wiki article of worldbuilding ideas, the current scene in my WIP, a random scene I suddenly felt inspired to draft, or the next scene in the aforementioned pantser novel.  The latter is a free-form alternate history of events featuring the same characters as the “real novels.” The difference with this one is that I am writing it in sequence, start-to-finish, without an outline, no real plan, and completely under the Steven Brust premise of “write the coolest thing you can think of next.”  Mostly, I go to this one when I’m at the bar, and I’ve had a couple of beers, so as not to create editing hell for my main WIP the next day.  The point is, it’s a different approach to writing, it’s a different feel for a story, and it allows me to try out ideas like “What if these two characters argued about X,” “If I had this happen to these characters, would it feel contrived, or could I pull it off?” “If I introduce a character for X purpose, what can I do to make his voice and mannerisms unique?”

Apparently, this is a foreign concept to many writers. The predominant school of thought for many of them is to pick your WIP, start at the beginning, type to the end, edit, repeat. I’ve even seen writers who treat every paragraph as precious. As if it would be admitting failure if the 1,000 words they wrote during the Sunday morning sprint at Starbucks didn’t survive to the final draft. If they have to rewrite or throw it out, then it was a waste of time.

Musicians, on the other hand, operate in two different modes: practice and performance. Lennon and McCartney famously wrote dozens of songs and song fragments before settling on “Love Me Do.”  Those fragments were either lost, forgotten, never finished, or had moments of brilliance that were repurposed and used in later songs. Similarly, Geddy and Alex from Rush sit in a room and jam for hours, producing hundreds of riffs, ideas, and chord progressions, then go back to the tape and pick out the interesting ones to develop into songs.  The rest are either discarded or will likely resurface in a similar form during the next jam session. To a musician, these are not wasted efforts.  This is how they hone their two primary crafts of playing and songwriting. 

A lot of writers seem to be of the mindset that they should be competent out of the gate, which is likely why so many of them burn out and give up. I believe they’re thinking backward. You don’t write because you’re a great writer. You become a great writer by writing.  Can you imagine being a musician under this philosophy?  The first time your band gets together to practice, or the first time you get up on stage for a jam at an open mic night, you are required to mix that into a radio-ready album eventually. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time. 

It’s uncomfortable to think about, but I was warned about the expected road to competence when I started in my first band.  There will be practices that sound bad, but they will get better.  There will be performances that go badly, but no one will remember them the next day.  You will sit in the studio working out solos and parts, and you will be frequently told, “That’s great, do it again.”  You will record songs that don’t make the album and maybe don’t even get uploaded to SoundCloud as bonus tracks. You might pay these dues for years out of your own pocket and still never get picked up by a major label. Don’t worry, we’re a community, we support each other.

Yeah, writers? Not so much.  We’re nice to each other, lots of us are even friends, but if you write a song and play it for another musician, there’s no way he’s going to say you’re a horrible musician and you should give up because no label is ever going to sign you (actual feedback I’ve heard more than one writer receive from their “critique group”) A musician may even offer to help you rework the song. A musician might even play on your recording to help bolster a part. To writers, this would be considered “betraying your voice and your vision.” I find that mindset very interesting.

As I say many times in other posts, please don’t take this blog as writing advice. I’m not qualified to dispense that. I convey my mindset and process. You know, the stuff that works for me. In this case, just write and enjoy writing.  Maybe it will be the greatest scene you’ve ever written in your life.  Maybe you’ll decide the scene was a bad idea halfway through and file it in the junk folder. Don’t feel pressured to make every sentence you type into art. The goal should not be to write a masterpiece every time you sit down at a keyboard. Some days you’re performing; some days you’re practicing. The trick is to know which is which.