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Moving Out of the Comfort
Zone
by
Kathi Appelt
In the January 2003 issue of DOWNBEAT MAGAZINE,
editor Jason Koransky uses his column to wax poetic about musicians who
write about music. He titled the column: “Those Who Know the Music,
Write.” He was specifically talking about jazz saxophonist Greg Osby
who wrote a cover story about pianists Jason Moran and Andrew Hill. Koransky
writes about Osby, “I’m glad he (Osby) enjoys writing, because
having him interview artists provides a perspective on the music to which
most writers aren’t privy. Prominent musicians interviewing prominent
musicians, or writing essays with an insider’s perspective on the
scene, elicits a level of musical
comprehension--an affinity for a shared cause--that makes for fascinating
reading.”
DOWNBEAT, with its subtitle: “Jazz, Blues & Beyond,” has
a long history
of musicians writing about their industry, their craft and each other.
If I
were one of the “writers [who] aren’t privy,” I think I
might take offense
to Koransky’s assertion, but to his credit he never says that musicians-writing-about-music
are better than us non-musicians. He only states that their work “makes
for fascinating reading.” One can only surmise that he was saving
his editorial hide in that regard.
Nonetheless, he piqued my interest and to further my curiosity, the
title of the article included the phrase: “On Composition, Bandleading
and
the Creative Process.” Always drawn to anything that has to do with
the
creative process, I went directly to page 24. Now lest anyone think that
I
have some sort of expertise in “jazz, blues & beyond,” the
only reason
DOWNBEAT happens to be resting on my desk is that I have a son who is
studying jazz at the University of North Texas and this subscription was
a
Christmas gift to him (not me).
So, okay, I’m thinking. Let’s take a look at this “fascinating
reading.” I realize, after the first few lines that the teacher in
me is challenging the piece. I’m approaching it with the old English
professor adage that a well-written essay should appeal to anyone. In
other words, if the writer has done his or her job well, a lay reader
should be able to enjoy it without too much of a struggle. In fairness,
this was a rather mean-spirited approach on my part. After all, DOWNBEAT
is primarily directed toward a targeted audience, and not necessarily
to musicians’ mothers.
However, any commercial magazine, in order to survive, also has to have
enough broad appeal that an outsider might subscribe to it or at least
pick
it up in the doctor’s office. Right? So was the reading “fascinating?”
Actually, most of it did fall into that category. It was obvious throughout
that the author truly admired the two people he was interviewing, that
he had a firm grasp of the technical aspects of their conversation, and
that his questions could probably only have come from someone who understood
the challenges and triumphs of performers as only a fellow performer could.
(I confess to feeling a little dusted when the discussion became technical,
but a small bit of confusion doesn’t bother me).
So what does any of this have to do with students and publishing?
First of all, I hate to say that it reaffirms the old tenet “write
what
you know,” because I believe that the actual process of writing helps
us
find what we know or at least leads us to those places where we can come
to
know.
Yes, having a foundation of knowledge can provide a starting point, but
too often I think it can be a trap as well. To follow the tenet too closely
can be deadening and cut us off from further discovery. If we urge our
students to “write what you know,” aren’t we also giving
them the unspoken other half of that rule: “don’t venture into
unknown territory.” I have an image of a winged demon with a huge
red pen waiting to strike anyone venturing into such a realm.
But there’s that tiny element of truth, isn’t there? The author
Greg Osby clearly knows the territory he’s writing about. He’s
steeped in it. Not only that, but he’s a personal acquaintance of
both of his subjects. He’s well within his comfort zone. However,
to say that the piece is “comfortable” would be an injustice.
In fact, there’s an edginess about it that makes the reader just
a bit “uncomfortable.” Osby asks his subjects hard questions,
questions that delve beneath the superficial aspects of playing jazz piano.
I suspect that he could have written an article on the basics with questions
like: “how many hours a day do you practice?” or “what
is your favorite brand of electric keyboard?” or even “who inspires
you?” and in fact, these questions were “inside” of the
tougher questions that he did ask about composition, imitation, listening,
and relationships to other musicians.
So maybe that’s what we’re missing when we teach writing--discomfort.
What if, instead of urging our students to write what they know, we pressed
them to “write into the discomfort zone”? In other words, what
if we
encouraged them to write past what they knew, so that they were forced
to
ask questions and to push beyond where they felt comfortable?
I’m convinced, based on my college students’ writing, that we
have not
done a good job of teaching our students how to ask questions. Not only
questions of technique, but questions that can bring life to their art.
At
the most basic level, we can help a student bring his or her writing to
a
higher standard by simply getting them to incorporate the five senses
into
their work.
One of my students, a very bright college junior,
wrote a series of poems based on her painful experience of being sexually
abused by an older
relative when she was quite young. For her to even write the poems was
a
monumental and hugely courageous step, but when she did finally get them
on the page, they failed to represent the profound pain that was so apparent
in her desire to write them. She could name the feelings--anger, sadness,
depression--but those came across as generic. When I encouraged her to
return to the poems and simply incorporate colors, smells, sounds, tastes
and textures, the poems came alive. She walked out of the comfort zone
of
naming into the discomfort zone of imagery.
By discomfort, I don’t mean to confuse topic with process. I’m
not a
therapist and I don’t push my students to write about these hard
topics
unless they choose to do so. But I do push them to ask deeper and deeper
questions about whatever topic they are writing about. It’s not until
they
run out of questions that their work can fully emerge.
At a higher level, beyond the senses, we can encourage our students to
ask the more abstract questions of how, why, and what if? In the case
of
my junior, these questions weren’t necessary because the entire process
of
writing and reading her poems continually asked the question why.
Once a writer has pushed into the discomfort zone, the reader can become
engaged. It’s the same thing as having a cliffhanger at the end of
the chapter. It’s the discomfort of not knowing that makes us turn
the page. If we were comfortable at the end of the chapter, we’d
never finish the book.
Discomfort makes us act.
Political writers know this: “If you elect a Republican, the forests
will die.” “If you elect a Democrat, we’ll all be on welfare.”
Quick, to the polls! Advertisers know this: “Without beer, we can’t
have a party.” Add Millers to the grocery list!
It’s our nature as humans to move toward a sense or feeling of comfort,
but ironically, the only way to get there is by being uncomfortable first.
If we’re comfortable, we don’t solve problems.
In the publishing industry, it’s not the topics that get published.
DOWNBEAT’s articles examine the same topics over and over--”jazz,
blues & beyond.” Those articles that make the cut go beyond what’s
comfortable,
beyond the superficial, they go beyond beyond.
When we urge our own young writers to go from the known into the
unknown, we’re also educating them to be a good reading audience.
Students who are able to ask questions about their peers’ work can
become better questioners of their own work and thus better questioners
of print media in general. This can never happen if the interchange is
only between teacher and writer. It has to happen in an open atmosphere
where the goal for everyone in the class is to publish and the exchange
of ideas is a given.
If the audience is too small, the writing is small too.
So Mr. Koransky was correct in his assertion that essays about music
written by musicians can make for fascinating reading. But if I were the
author’s teacher, I would encourage him to think beyond the targeted
audience for in fact his article felt a little clubby and despite my
fascination I felt a little excluded. I would urge him to move beyond
what
he knew--and in this case what he “knew” was a particular audience.
And it
was too small. Next time I would encourage him to consider his audience’s
mothers and others of us who love music and musicians even though we aren’t
performers ourselves. Because you see, Mr. Koransky, it’s not only
those who know the music who write. More importantly, it’s those
who want to know the music. We write too.
Kathi Appelt is the author of over twenty books
for children and young adults. She teaches at Texas A&M University
and in the MFA in Writing for Children program at Vermont College in Montpelier,
Vermont. She lives with her husband Ken in College Station, Texas.
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