On skipping a beat

At seventeen, I started singing in choirs, and continued until I was twenty-five. In a choir, individual voices only contribute if they blend harmoniously with others, in pitch, colour, and rhythm. It has been a precious school of humility.

It has been a school of pragmatism as well. I have a high tenor voice, and was able on its account to get into better and better choirs, eventually singing alongside professionals in the making. But I’m not a good sight reader. At early rehearsals, I would often get lost. There, I learnt an important lesson. When you lose track, the worst possible attitude is to follow your own skewed rhythm. Collective activities have a cyclical nature. Stop, look for the right moment, and jump back in.

Through practice, I integrated this. I could stop anytime I needed, without compromising the whole edifice. Skip a beat, and get on with the music. My focus should not be so much on never making a mistake, but on rejoining the group with minimal disturbance. Different skill, different mindset.

Earlier this week, I got out of sync with my writing. After a late dinner, I postponed editing and publishing to the following day. This continued, with a nagging sense that I should catch up, do double load. Yesterday, rather than edit and share my Friday reflection, I caught myself writing two new pages in my notebook, and publishing nothing. Something was wrong.

I reverted to choral wisdom. I tripped, and must give up on strict dailiness. No need for shame and self-doubt, think about it pragmatically. Time passes, people move on. Rather than stick to my new skewed rhythm, and jar with dynamics around me, I stopped, I breathed, I jump again. Back in the beat.


On the dimensions of writing

Since the beginning of this year, I have written a post every day, following the same process. I have a large notebook, and write a full page by hand. Then I type it into wordpress, editing as I go, publish, and circulate.

Speed is of the essence. Drafting takes about ten minutes, the whole process no more than thirty, short enough that the task allows regular commitment. Over time, posts accumulate, the notebook fills in, and patterns emerge, pet themes, structures and recurring concepts. I can hear myself think.

I enjoy the process of handwriting. Not only the sensual physicality of it. There is an irreversible quality to tracing lines over paper. I can strike, I can blot, but I can’t undo. Digital word processing is more elusive. On the page, I can feel the balance of the piece better, I am halfway through now, the end is in sight, I have to pivot.

In about ten minutes, over one page, I write about 250 words. If I rushed, I could probably double the rate. From a reader’s perspective, there is a tight connection between time and word count – a longer piece will take longer to read. For a writer, this is a very loose relationship. With practice, sketches become faster, sharper. Until suddenly, the flow stops on a word, or the closure of a paragraph. Minutes pass, nothing grows.

The words we write have a mysterious dimension. On the page, in front of me, they exist as a physical thing, a trace of ink over paper. If I close the notebook, they disappear. Their thin-as-thin third dimension vanishes. As I go back through my past notes, reading them in turn, they flatten. My segmented, daily pages become one continuous meditation, unidimensional.