GASOLINE AND WHISKEY
Posted on November 6, 2011
The process of creative revision is like running a distillery or refinery. You take your raw materials, cook them down to their essences, combine them, remove the impurities, and sometimes make use of the impurities, too. It’s like making gasoline and whiskey, or more broadly, fuel and spirits.
Sometimes, you mix a little bit of this and a little bit of that, just to see if it will explode or catch fire, nothing too dangerous. And sometimes, stuff you expected to explode just sits there and does nothing.
I recently completed a major revision of my “Red Beets and Horseradish” project, adding new songs, radically revising others and remixing everything. The new recordings were posted and a link sent to a moderate number of people who’d previously expressed interest in my concoctions. I asked for feedback but received few responses.
So I’m asking again.
The Writing Program at the English Department of the University of Pittsburgh didn’t necessarily teach me anything about writing but DID teach me the value of giving and receiving good feedback. All you do is say, “This is what I noticed. This is what stood out to me. This is what I found surprising. This is what I thought I didn’t understand. These are the questions I found myself asking...”
This information helps a communicator in the process of distilling and refining. The best-case scenario is that the reader/listener not only succeeds reveals to me the stuff I couldn’t see because I was blinded by my own assumptions. Honestly, even if I didn’t succeed at what I was setting out to do, I’ve done well if your car started or you caught a little buzz
In the early days of NO SHELTER and THE LITTLE WRETCHES, for example, some performances had the effect of causing members of the audience to want to approach us and share their responses. They’d obviously gotten something from whatever we were doing and were so moved by the experience that they wanted to give back. On one occasion, a homeless woman ran to the market to buy us oranges and sang for us as we ate.
It can be pretty painful, though, to pour your heart into a performance and receive NO FEEDBACK AT ALL! But it happens. OK. So the car didn’t start. Maybe it wasn’t a problem with the fuel-system. Then again, maybe it was. Let’s open the hood and diagnose this thing.
To be sure, it is more fun to get a response than to be ignored, and performers can use manipulative little tricks to engage the audience. Your thirst for a connection to the audience comes to control the form and content of your work, and you descend into the world of gag and schtick. You go from making magic to performing sleight of hand. The audience goes home satisfied, but you feel like a charlatan.
That’s why I’m attracted to the Jack Kerouac thing about spontaneity and first idea / best idea. You practice your craft. You prepare yourself. You study and learn. But you honor your gifts. You’ve got divine intentions. Even if you’re completely deluded and your silly little songs don’t mean nothing to nobody, you go out and deliver them as though the fate of the universe is at stake.
But I want a larger audience. I desire a broader platform from which to present my work. I’ve been working in virtual isolation for several years, and now that I’m hoping to have somewhat of a “coming out,” it’s a little unsettling to be met with silence.
Sometimes, you mix a little bit of this and a little bit of that, just to see if it will explode or catch fire, nothing too dangerous. And sometimes, stuff you expected to explode just sits there and does nothing.
I recently completed a major revision of my “Red Beets and Horseradish” project, adding new songs, radically revising others and remixing everything. The new recordings were posted and a link sent to a moderate number of people who’d previously expressed interest in my concoctions. I asked for feedback but received few responses.
So I’m asking again.
The Writing Program at the English Department of the University of Pittsburgh didn’t necessarily teach me anything about writing but DID teach me the value of giving and receiving good feedback. All you do is say, “This is what I noticed. This is what stood out to me. This is what I found surprising. This is what I thought I didn’t understand. These are the questions I found myself asking...”
This information helps a communicator in the process of distilling and refining. The best-case scenario is that the reader/listener not only succeeds reveals to me the stuff I couldn’t see because I was blinded by my own assumptions. Honestly, even if I didn’t succeed at what I was setting out to do, I’ve done well if your car started or you caught a little buzz
In the early days of NO SHELTER and THE LITTLE WRETCHES, for example, some performances had the effect of causing members of the audience to want to approach us and share their responses. They’d obviously gotten something from whatever we were doing and were so moved by the experience that they wanted to give back. On one occasion, a homeless woman ran to the market to buy us oranges and sang for us as we ate.
It can be pretty painful, though, to pour your heart into a performance and receive NO FEEDBACK AT ALL! But it happens. OK. So the car didn’t start. Maybe it wasn’t a problem with the fuel-system. Then again, maybe it was. Let’s open the hood and diagnose this thing.
To be sure, it is more fun to get a response than to be ignored, and performers can use manipulative little tricks to engage the audience. Your thirst for a connection to the audience comes to control the form and content of your work, and you descend into the world of gag and schtick. You go from making magic to performing sleight of hand. The audience goes home satisfied, but you feel like a charlatan.
That’s why I’m attracted to the Jack Kerouac thing about spontaneity and first idea / best idea. You practice your craft. You prepare yourself. You study and learn. But you honor your gifts. You’ve got divine intentions. Even if you’re completely deluded and your silly little songs don’t mean nothing to nobody, you go out and deliver them as though the fate of the universe is at stake.
But I want a larger audience. I desire a broader platform from which to present my work. I’ve been working in virtual isolation for several years, and now that I’m hoping to have somewhat of a “coming out,” it’s a little unsettling to be met with silence.