Cross-pollinating
Ever hear of a band called the Rock Bottom Remainders? The name is self-mocking, I believe. It comes from the publishing term "remaindered book,” which means no longer selling well (those deeply discounted books on tables at bookstores are publishers’ attempts to make even a buck on them).
This band was real. They raised millions for charity with their concerts. And they were all relatively famous writers who risked foolishness in public by doing an art form that wasn’t their expertise!
Stephen King, Amy Tan, Scott Turow, Barbara Kingsolver, and Dave Barry were band members at one time. Backed by pros on drums, keyboard, and guitar, the group performed until 2012, even playing with Bruce Springsteen at an American Booksellers convention.
I love the risk of dedicated full-time writers showcasing themselves in another challenging art that they had not mastered. Who does that, nowadays?
Probably great fun, bottom line, but also terrifying, perhaps. And I bet it gave back something they couldn’t get anywhere else.
Artists love other artists. Writing is solitary. How does community build around us writers? Well, we write, alone, then get together to share what we’ve written—sometimes. Totally not the same as jamming with other musicians.
I believe in cross-pollinating. I’ve dabbled in other artistic avenues all my life (can’t seem to just play with one): been in two bands, as a singer; played the guitar off and on since high school—rather badly; tried flute and hammered dulcimer and recorder; painted and danced (also badly).
Each creative effort has enriched my writing practice. How is that possible?
Hanging out with other arts
For almost a decade, I organized a group of four or five friends for a summer creativity camp. We met at my family’s cabin by a lake in the mountains. One year our group was one screenwriter, three musicians, two painters, and one novelist. (My math isn’t wrong, even though it doesn’t add up—most did more than one art.) Some always toggled, unable to choose between painting and songwriting, for instance.
Why not do both?
I gained so much, just hanging around other artists. From the painters I remembered how important it is to stare and study, visually. From the musicians, I learned new ways to bring sound into my writing. The screenwriter taught me pacing skills, and why dialogue and stage placement is vital in story.
But mostly I just loved being around others who got so much juice from creating.
Poets & Writers had a fascinating article about the phenomenon—and long history—of writers who also enjoy other arts, including the likes Blake, Dostoevsky, Faulkner, Proust, Kafka, and Updike. The article interviewed five contemporary published writers who love to paint, do fabric art, photograph, cook, and draw.
It reminded me that when I’m stuck, it’s time to seek out some cross-pollination.
Cross-pollinating
Last fall, I was interviewed by Valerie Ihsan and Erick Mertz for their Writer Craft podcast. We talked a lot about how writers keep enthusiasm high during the grueling work of producing a book.
Our conversation sidetracked into cross-pollinating: why so many seasoned writers swear by dabbling in other arts to keep their writing sane and productive.
I also used cross-pollinating as a refresher for those stuck times. Or when I’m burned out on words. I practiced this in the months between the launch of my second novel last fall and the recent release of my third in April.
My family and I packed ourselves and dogs in our 19-foot camper van and went on the road for two months. I called it my recovery road trip. My goal was to cross-pollinate: watched great movies, cook great meals, and get involved with my painting again. At campgrounds and when visiting friends’ five-acre “ranch” down south, I set up an outdoor screen house and my easel for art.
I still wrote every morning, but there was no pressure to produce. I could put my passion into my painting.
Like those brave musicians in the Rock Bottom Remainders, I’m not a total newbie with the visual arts. I’ve sold paintings, exhibited fairly widely (galleries to universities to art leagues), and taught classes. The difference is, painting is not my profession. I consider myself a writer first. But painting is my favorite cross-pollination. It relaxes my brain. It gives me new ideas.
If I’m struggling with a story, I either take a long walk or I paint. Both allow a reset.
We were in South Carolina when I took this photo of my traveling easel and box of pastel sticks, set up near a pond in the most glorious early spring afternoon light.
Increase the immersion
What happens when you do a secondary art, versus your primary, as a writer?
When I paint, I can be random. Although I studied seriously for many years to learn how to reliably translate atmosphere, line, and distance into a recognizable image, I don’t approach it scientifically. I don’t try to structure or outline, as I might with a story or novel. I just let my intuition guide me.
Yes, I have a series of steps to follow, just like I do when drafting a chapter or scene, but they are based on how the image feels to me, how it resonates. Rarely do I get this in early draft writing. It’s a beautiful and refreshing experience.
Something else I’ve noticed about this secondary art: a fellow painter once remarked that once you paint something, you own it, and it’s true. I’ll always recognize these reeds painted above, because of the immersion I felt when I studied them for this painting.
The landscapes I paint, whenever I visit them again, have an intimacy like you feel when running into an old friend you know well.
Toggle for refreshment, not discipline
We’re told, as writers, to set up a routine, a discipline, to keep us writing. But what if we need refreshment, not discipline, to keep going in a new way?
The study of reeds, above, took me about 90 minutes. It felt like having a great, insightful conversation with a part of my creative self that doesn’t get tapped when I write. Because of the refreshment it brought, I came away in a very dreamy place—ideal, actually, for re-entering a piece of writing.
We know that words and images use different sides of the brain. As do sounds and movement. Maybe one reason a good walk helps my writing life. Or listening to music or singing along. All these arts are tactile, and they me back in touch with my body. Writing, being an invisible process, happens inside the head and heart, silent as it’s being created.
I’m curious whether you have explored another art avenue, a craft, or some other creative activity alongside your writing. What tangential arts do you dabble in, enjoy, explore? What do they lend to your life as a writer?
Your Weekly Writing Exercise
Enjoy this article from Poets & Writers then scan your life to see what other art forms you make use of, to bring inspiration or refreshment to your writing.
I’m encouraging you to read the article first, because two of the artists take delight in tangential art forms that might seem mundane, not highbrow enough to be “art” at first glance, but are authentic vehicles for inspiration. Honestly, whatever creative pursuit you bring your passion and love to, will do the trick of providing this refreshment and balance to your writing.
What other arts do you enjoy?