Bling This

In the summer of 1963, I was less than a year old. I was still in my crib, unable to stand without holding on to the bars, and I bounced up and down to Beethoven, Harry Belafonte, Benny Goodman, The Clancy Brothers, or any other record my mother chose to put on the turntable. I was a happy baby.

As a pre-teen, I would cry when Van Cliburn played a Chopin Nocturne. (I have heard the same pieces played by others without Mr. Cliburn’s emotion and felt nothing.) His ability to evoke painful feelings by simply performing a musical phrase is what artistry is about.  I used the word evoke because I already had feelings of sadness and depression as a kid.

When I was about twelve, my brother brought home the record Brain Salad Surgery by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, and it forever changed my musical tastes. Some would argue that skewed would be a better word, I would insist broadened would suit my point best. My emotions at that time ran the gamut from isolation to nothing. At fifteen, I had already acquiesced myself to a life where joy would be rare. I turned forty-nine last month and I was right. As far as music is concerned, every possible mood I can conjure is represented in my extensive and eclectic collection. As much as I know about musical theory, and I know a lot, my compositions don’t quite seal the deal. Maybe some do, but mostly, they do not.

This post is not about my depression, or how I’m a survivor, or any other bullshit excuse I tend to give folks when need to hide it; I can fake happiness better than anyone. No, today, I’m trying to connect emotion together with art. And if I’m putting it out there a little too much, whatever - you all know me pretty well by now anyway.

A writer, a real writer, can tap into their inner demons, or elation, and make the reader, or listener, feel it. For the past decade, or since I’ve developed a crush on storytelling, I’ve been paying close attention to our beautiful and complex language. Choosing the right words is a skill I admire. I find it difficult to make a reader feel exactly what I want them to. I can certainly tell a reader how horrible it is for someone to throw you out of a helicopter, but to make them feel what it’s like falling toward a mountain blanketed with evergreen trees, knowing that screaming for help is futile, is the real trick. A good writer will convey a sense of hopelessness during that passage. I’m not there yet. I can convincingly write characters like me, that is, a pathetic dude with regrets, but that isn’t what writing is. A real writer can construct a beautiful paragraph on something mundane, say eels, and keep a reader interested. I admire that talent. I aspire to possess a fraction of that kind of gift. Some folks are naturals, others need work.

I’ve been consciously expanding my vocabulary in hope of doing just that. I have absolutely no desire to impress anyone with fancy expressions; I want my word choice to be invisible. Irritating words such as bling instantly suck me out of a story. I love Dan Brown because his books take me on a journey like no other writer. I totally escape in his novels, (although he uses the word expansive too much.) I’ve read many writers, more knowledgeable than I, dismiss him as fluff. Really? Being a newbie writer, I would consider that a snobbish attitude. Storytelling is the whole point, to me anyway.  As much as Rachmaninoff induces a yearning for love, so does Madonna.

Is there something specific that can ruin a mood for you? Is there an author who does it right?