Written May 16, 2002 for Composer's Laboratory with Professor Judith Zaimont:
"I've got the graph paper and the chocolate... Now what do I do?"
The creative process of a structural procrastinator
I sit down with a blank piece of manuscript paper. I get up to sharpen my pencil. I sit down with a blank piece of manuscript paper. I decide I need some good tea. And chocolate. Well, what I should really do is have lunch. I sit down again with a blank piece of manuscript paper. The whole day is stretched before me - perhaps I'd be more inspired on a walk. I sit down on a dock by the lake with a blank piece of manuscript paper. I say, "Abbie! Are you a composer, or not? Look around you for something interesting and write it the heck down!" I watch leaves blow and birds fly and think about timing of natural things. I watch dogs in water and kids on bikes and think about balance and coordination of movement. I sometimes think of lyrics and end up writing poetry instead. My music incubates a long time.
Description
Because over 80% of my music includes voice, I usually work very closely with a text. I come across these texts in a variety of ways, not always by looking for them, but when I have found the right one, always absolutely confident that it is so. There must be no question that it is the right text or I will doubt the creative process and the piece itself through its entire development.
I immediately explore copyright information on the text, historical background, other texts by the author, and, if the text is part of something larger, attempt to find and read the whole of it. I fully analyze its structure and language, looking for patterns and themes, counting syllables, and reciting it for other people for their feedback. I always memorize the text and repeat it to myself over many days, ruminating on it while I go about other business. In this stage I like to have the text ready in my mind at all times since I do find that I will come up with better ideas in more relaxed environments -- on long walks, grocery shopping, bus rides, etc. I pay attention to the parts of the text that will NOT leave my mind when I ask them to, and give them special treatment later in the process.
When I decide that to live with this text any longer without doing anything about it would be ridiculous, I sit down and draw a map. I draw lines joining similar words or phrases, draw pictures of images evoked, and note tentative ideas for texture and instrumentation. I will often record myself reciting the text, so if I later get stuck writing something that sounds forced, I can refer to my original intention using my recorded text intonation. For the same reason, I might also sing improvised melodies on the text into the tape recorder.
I can now see the scope of the text. I try to envision the scope of the music. How will the music best complement the text? Should they be different in scope? Sometimes I think of the music like a city bus -- where shall it pick up its listeners, and where shall it drop them off? It is crucial for me to know these beginnings and end points because I am in the habit of writing these sections first. I must know where I am beginning and where I must end up, or I find I will amble aimlessly in sound.
When the image of the piece begins to sharpen, I draw another map. It begins as a graph, the horizontal axis in time and the vertical in intensity. I mark the pinnacle point(s) and the slope of the rise and fall of the piece. As I go, I may include drawings of images represented by the text or evoked by the sound in my head, pictorial replications of sound techniques used (an intense zigzag line for heavy vibrato, etc), and bits and pieces of text likely to be used at crucial moments. The map is always drawn to scale, in time and proportion.
I write a few possible beginnings and endings of the piece. Usually done at the piano, this part of the composition happens quickly since I have known my parameters for quite some time. The end is more crucial to me than the beginning since everyone may be "picked up" at different spots, but I intend to "drop them all off" together in a single, different place.
From the best possible 'bookend' pair, I extract nuggets of material for the body of the piece. I reason that, since I write the bookends very quickly and intuitively, there must be something embodied in them that I subconsciously feel introduces or summarizes something bigger. I find these bookends fall into three main categories. If they act as SUMMARY material, I must extract from either or both a condensed nugget, fleshing it out to become more substenant middle material for the piece. If they are wildly different, I assume it will be a piece about SPECTRUM, and write middle material with potential to link each to each. If the beginning and end are similar, but it is impossible to extract a nugget, I write a THROUGH-COMPOSED piece, formless, and try to define something that can make the piece cohesive -- a harmonic structure, an intervallic relationship, a rhythm, etc. I may also use a concept to define the middle material (such as contagious illness, or imitation of specific laughs I know).
In the actual process of composing the body of the piece, I tend to rely a bit too much on the piano. It is a grueling and long process of trial and error (more error), resulting in various sized chunks of material appearing before me. I either need to organize these chucks with arrows or numbers, or cut apart the manuscript paper to line it up in a vertical row on the floor. I prefer the latter, though either way I often get stuck trying to compose seamless transitions between sometimes irreconcilable chunks.
Finally going to the computer, I transcribe everything I have into Finale. This only includes notes, lyrics, and tempo markings since I can remember how I want everything else and it does not seem necessary to write that all out right away. The computer forces me to write out rhythm, which has so far been stemless and measureless, but written in a visual sort of time where long notes take up more space on the page than short ones.
On the computer, I do a 'watch-through.' I turn the sound all the way down and press play. If I have programmed the tempos correctly, I will get an accurate feel for the time and flow of the piece by watching the green Finale barline move through my piece as I sing it to myself.
I take the printed Finale score to the piano, where I revise and trim the piece on paper. I find my music is usually overwritten, so in this step I strive for efficiency in saying only what I need to say. This is the hardest and longest part of the process for me. I will revise much and often, usually burning myself out and needing to distance myself from the piece for a few days. (This is again where I go watching dogs at the lake.) I very rarely want advice from others on my piece in progress. When I come back to the piece, decisions seem clearer, and I work fast and efficiently editing, re-writing, and putting the final version into the computer. Then I reward myself with what I call the 'mastering' -- putting in all the articulations, expressions, and dynamics, measure by measure, straight through the piece. I really enjoy that final process and savor even more the feeling of completion!
When I can call it done, I tell myself I've written my "best piece yet" and move into a very curious stage - perhaps something like a grace period. Everything about the piece is perfect. I am a real composer and not pretending. No one may tell me anything critical because I won't change a note -- not ever. I may in fact be a genius.
In about three weeks, I go back to the piece and rework everything. Interestingly, I tend to need to rework either the beginning or the end -- my only fully intuitive chunks! My hunch is that as the piece takes shape, it becomes its own body, requiring slightly different parameters than the original ones conceived.
Analysis
It has been said that the creative process can be divided into four steps: Saturation, Incubation, Illumination, and Verification. In my work, I find these divisions in very imbalanced, and not necessarily consecutive, proportions.
My saturation phase is almost always on low. When I near the beginning of a piece, I turn it up, keeping my ears open for history and concepts important to the piece. Many things inspire my music, from kids on bikes to philosophical concepts to my experience with cancer. I like to notice things around me that are beautiful and may be effective in sound. However, the moment a piece is completed my saturation turns off to give my brain a little break. After writing a piece I am usually entirely exhausted.
The incubation stage is very long. When I have a few pieces going at once, my brain feels very heavy and overloaded as they all incubate together. This period is never quite done until the entire piece is done, coming back more strongly after flashes of inspiration.
For me, illumination does seem to come in short bursts -- most of which I have trouble remembering, and can only write down the feeling of them, and not the wisdom itself.
Verification is subtly connected to the aftershocks of illumination, as the end of the piece is in sight and I am working very fast and efficiently. The process of editing and revising is combined with the actual computer notation, and woven in to the process without seeming like a chore. I very much enjoy the verification.
Because my actual composing process is so haphazard, so strongly based on trial and error, I have countered by infusing it with structure. I must have precise conditions to be able to be a productive composer. I need privacy, absolute silence, and tend to feel more creative in minimal light. I work well on rainy afternoons or from midnight to dawn. I need to be very comfortable in loose clothing (or a bathrobe) and my hair away from my face. Because I was so often inspired to write while I was going through chemotherapy, I now like to don a loose turban while composing and find it reminds me of that specific muse.
My particular structure concentrates very heavily on a visual aspect of time and proportion. Though I rarely write the first draft in standard rhythmic notation, it is written in proportional space. I will often leave many lines of manuscript open, knowing beforehand exactly how much time I need for a transition or other material. My maps and drawings also illustrate my need to render sound visually.
- Abbie Betinis, May 2002
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