Here comes the rain again... please?

ATTENTION DISGRUNTLED SEATTLEITES:

Please join me in gittin' down to a funky rain dance tonight at 7. You may bust any move you like as long as it brings on the wind and rain.

Special guest: English DJ Rob McKenna, Rain God.

Now I know what a chocolate bar feels like

T'S both hot and humid here in our little corner of the Pacific Northwest, and we have no air conditioning (though the box fans are doing their utmost). It's noon now, and it's hit 85 degrees inside, though the heat index makes it feel more like 103. Projected daily high: 92.

'Scuse me for a bit while I melt into a puddle.

I guess I'd take the car out for a while, except while I was driving it home on Saturday the Check Engine light came on. Frankly, the thing is a lemon and I'm not really willing to spend any more coin on it at this stage. (Since it looks like we're heading in that direction anyway, anybody have any suggestions for a nice reliable four-door sedan with decent gas mileage? We are NOT buying another Chevy Prizm after our misadventures with this one. Mutta mutta.)

There is good news, though, and it has nothing to do with saving money on car insurance; I've been getting a few ideas for writing topics just recently. Hoping the creative jag will continue for a while and I'll be able to produce a finished story for a change!

Virtuosity as play

HERE'S something I've been considering over the past few weeks, brought on by mentally connecting a number of related vignettes, I suppose. It's the idea of talent or ability -- specifically, the point at which the years and years of practice and honing one's craft have caused the ability to seem almost innate, so that one can let go and perform unselfconsciously and joyously. It's what people mean when they say a certain artist "makes it look easy" to sing or dance or paint or play an instrument, for instance.

I've thought about "the Matrix of T'sel," the brainchild of science fiction author John Dalmas (to dumb it down a bit, the idea is that when it comes to ability, everyone starts out at the level of "work," but only a very few continue to hone their abilities until they reach the level of "play" where they no longer need to concentrate -- they just have fun). I've read Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, and considered his concept of the 10,000-hour rule. I've thought about the phenomenon of the runner's high (which I've never personally experienced; like Chris Knight, I only run when chased). I've also read an article by Orson Scott Card on the nature of talent, and just what can be described as talent, which got me thinking about the whole mess again.

Funnily enough, though, the thing that jelled the concept for me was hearing a comment Michael Jackson made in an interview several years ago. Jackson mentioned he'd sometimes visit theme parks in disguise, just so he could people-watch without being mobbed, and he discussed watching other dancers perform:

"You can tell right away when an artist -- 'cause you can read it on her face, when she's dancing, she's counting, 'one and two and three and four and five and six and...' you can see it. But when you -- that's the wrong concept of dance. Dancing is about feeling, not about thinking, so when they count, they're thinking. You should feel: become the bass, become the drums, become the guitar and the strings. You just become [clap] a oneness, you know? That's very important."

I don't know how to dance worth beans. It's not something for which I have any aptitude, not a vocation to which I've devoted years of practice. But I think I know what Jackson is talking about here, because there are a few skills and talents which I have practiced consistently over the years. Reading, for instance. My brothers and I read very early, starting at age two or three, and I literally cannot remember a time when I could not read. Because I read constantly and voraciously in childhood, I got in huge amounts of practice, and over time the mechanics involved in reading the words simply disappeared, and I could let go and be in the book. I don't just read captivating books -- I live in them; I can mentally see the world created by the words on the page, and I'm right there with the protagonist. In fact, when I was younger I would go so deeply into the books I was reading that my mom would have to shake me gently to bring me back into reality. I was unaware of my surroundings or of the passage of time; my mind was at play in another world.

I honestly didn't understand when certain people told me they didn't like to read. I couldn't see why anyone would dislike being immersed in the worlds of fantasy I so loved. But I didn't realize then that some people didn't experience reading the same way I did; they couldn't be completely in the book, because to some extent they were still wrestling with the mechanics of reading it. Jackson might not have been aware of it, since he'd been performing from childhood on, but when he talked about becoming one with the music he was describing a level of proficiency which very few people -- even professional dancers -- ever attain. It's a virtuosity so complete that all the mechanics -- the years of work and practice -- simply melt away, and one is free to play at one's talent.

This level of creative play isn't omnipresent, but it is certainly visible. I've been watching Jon Schmidt perform some of his compositions and arrangements on YouTube, and although a number of his works are very challenging to play, what Schmidt does can hardly be described as work. All you have to do is look at his face while he's performing; his love for what he does comes shining through in every moment of performance. His fingers twirl and spin over the keys, his head and body move with the beat of the composition; he is in a world of his own making. In every sense of the word, he is playing the piano. But when people go to his concerts or listen to his music, they forget that this level of play requires a huge but invisible background of work. They want to be able to play his compositions with all his ease and skill, without having to go through the years of practice required to produce that ease and skill.

We are creative beings, I believe, in large part because we are children of a Creator. It's a family trait passed down to us. But just because we have the innate talent for creation doesn't mean it's acceptable for us to leave it there. In my case, if I want to become a truly great writer rather than just a desultory word-tinkerer, it's going to require a lot more practice -- what Jane Yolen refers to as "butt in chair" -- until I reach the point of proficiency where it's no longer honest for me to call what I do "work."

Social networking ate my brain

First Twitter, now Facebook. Somebody stop me!

I'm giving up Twitter, at least for personal updates. It's been fun, but in all honesty I'm too chatty to shave most of my comments down to a pithy 140 characters. Besides, I can't delude myself into the belief that complete strangers or even close friends are hanging on my every Tweet. (Actually, I hope they're not. That would be unspeakably pathetic.) Then, too, I've already realized (and observed here) that when I'm busy tweaking Twitter, it saps mental energy I could be expending more productively elsewhere. I guess some social networking software is like wine -- some people can have one glass and stop, and others have to finish the bottle. I'm a bottle-finisher, apparently.

It occurred to me today, while I was merrily messing around with Facebook, that there are so many people out there seeking fame or at least personal validation through social networking sites. (No, I don't have anyone specific in mind, so stop being paranoid, people!) They post even the most intimate details of their lives online, believing that by doing so they too have a chance at gathering masses of adoring fans (hint: even if you're Denzel Washington, nobody wants to know if you're in the toilet right now).

Then I began to consider the truly great writers, actors and entertainers of centuries past and present, and in so many cases how little we know about their personal lives and inner thoughts. The scanty facts we know about William Shakespeare's life can fit on a single page. But the quantity of verifiable biographical details largely misses the point. Shakespeare is beloved because of what he wrote, not about himself, but about human nature -- not about personal details, but about universal stories. People want to know more about him because of the demonstrated brilliance of his prose and poetry, the quality of his storytelling. Would he have produced anywhere near as many plays and sonnets if his time had been consumed with recording trivial details? I think not.

Still thinking about this, but it seems to me that social networking sites like Twitter and Facebook are potentially dangerous creativity suckers. I can only speak for myself, but if I expend the lion's share of my creative energy on sites such as Facebook, at the end of the day I feel as though I've accomplished something, but other than keeping up with friends (which I consider to be time well spent), I have done very little by way of actual writing. How is that a good thing?