CREATIVE DRIVE

The newsletter about you and your gut instinct

NUMBER 49

The long line: Find it and hold onto it.

Please note that I am not perfect. Honestly, I'm the opposite: an imperfect guy who's burdened with a dauntingly high standard. It was a problem in my youth, or at least I was once told that. The man said, "You have a standard that even God doesn't expect." It was in a musical context, where I'd been hired as part of a sort of touring show band. I wouldn't have thought God would bother with top-40 radio tunes because, well, I didn't either. So, the standard was as high as I could set it, and of course that meant "just beyond reach."

A standard is nothing unless it's almost unattainable, and to strive toward something is to struggle with all of the questions you'll have about it. The secret doorway to greatness may be there, but no one can show it to you. Even if they could, you'd need a personalized, once-only key code.

What You Want and . . .

It's important to understand the standard you seek so that you can appreciate it. In the creative arts, for example, there's a concept that pertains to what the composer Aaron Copland called the long line. In his classic book What to Listen for in Music (1939), he devotes an early chapter to the long line and how it's embodied. Let's look at the long line in the context of a few examples:

The Beatles' "Penny Lane" has a beautifully phrased melody that's continuous but dynamically evolved. It breathes and pauses as you would, and there's a middle section that's subtly distinct.

Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay" is the story of a man's life in the form of a song, which is again utterly memorable and singable. (I think his performance is a perfect depiction of the tale, too.) Think of the title, and you'll sing the melody to yourself for the rest of the day.

David Gates' "If" uses an ascending melody over a gently descending harmonic theme. The song is relatively brief, but the continuous melody is mated to words that address the longing for eternal love. It's still as maudlin as it was in '71, but that doesn't mean the song isn't devastatingly good. This piece is the work of a masterful arranger.

Thomas Dolby's "Screen Kiss" tells a story of alienation and the loss of self amid an abusive Hollywood relationship. The lyric tale unfolds in a way that matches the melody and harmonic development. It has a film noir quality, and it's stunningly effective.

XTC's "Love on a Farmboy's Wages" and "I Can't Earn Enough for Us" are two sides of a coin: charming, magically clever complaints about the struggle to get ahead. In each case we have a very singable melody that grabs the ear and doesn't let go. The first is pastoral, and the second is a jangle fest.

Let's add "Ich Ruf Zu Dir," by Johann Sebastian Bach. He was the undisputed master of harmony; a man whose work seemed to come directly from God. (Oh, wait. I was told I didn't really believe in God, so I guess I'm wrong here.)

Not Just a Good Idea

The long line, as our examples show, is the single, unbreakable thread of an idea. Isn't that cool? It's present in any great piece of music, and you'll find it in a classic novel. You'll discern the thread in a movie that really works, and right now I can think of a good example: Steven Spielberg's The Fabelmans (2022), follows the life of young Sammy, who dreams of being a film maker. Throughout that life is the push-and-pull dynamic of his parents' challenging relationship. It influences everything Sammy does and experiences, but ultimately he learns to appreciate his gift and what he must do to fulfill it.

An idea, like a standard, must be strong. It has to withstand the rigors of time and the threat of decrepitude. It must slap back at the fiercest interrogation–yours–and emerge from the room with its back straight and spirit unbroken.

How can we tell if an idea is that good? The answer is obvious: Your idea must be well made. It should have a fabric broad enough, and durable enough, to cover the thorny questions as they rise from the ground beneath you. In all of that torturous questioning you must perceive a single thread in the fabric. If you can grasp the thread and trace it across the entire span of fabric, you can trust your idea to maintain sail through hell and highwater.

A-ha! Eureka!

I had an epiphany recently. It concerned a book I started a couple of years ago. My story began as a short series of questions about the dream state. It was natural for me to do so at the time because I'd been through a number of consultations with a sleep specialist. As I developed the introduction and first two chapters of the story, there entered a certain character and then another. That "certain" character had something: a benevolent strength that transcended the character of most anyone I'd ever known. The "other" character was decidedly ordinary but special in that decidedly normal aspect of her speech and motive. I let the story rest so that I could pursue a more immediately accessible idea, but I didn't stop thinking and wondering about that "certain" character. I knew who she was and what she meant, but how did she relate to the realm of dreams? I had to understand it.

The answer crashed over me like a breaking wave. This character had nothing to do with dreams. At that moment I realized, very happily, that I had not one story but two. There was a duality in the fabric of my idea, but I didn't need two parallel lines that might never intersect. I hadn't been comfortable with the need to contrive certain relationships in the story, which is why I'd set it aside. When I realized there were two storylines, I knew that I could develop the one with that certain character and then explore the question of dreams. My newer story takes a different course, and it moves along with delightful ease. The premise is a bit surreal, but it's so reliable that the dialogue writes itself. I place my mind in the room with the characters and listen as they converse according to my plan.

Is it confusing to have two, three or more stories going at a time? It isn't, as long as each of them has that golden thread. Take your story, song or other project and identify its elements:

- Elements are essential parts.

- The essential parts have distinct qualities and characteristics.

- Characteristics infer motives and desires. Why write something that says nothing?

- Motives and desires embody purpose, which is . . . THE LONG LINE!

Get Onboard

We can see what the long line is. It's a purpose, which we can define as a direction. Climb onto that ship and take the wheel. There's enough sail out to take you from the dock, but then what will you do? I think you'll have to decide which way to go. Isn't that right? Of course you'll tend to say simply "forward," but even then your destination can't be seen. It will remain obscured by the illusory fog of doubt until you decide to name it. So, state your destination and open the mainsail. The golden thread in that brilliant fabric will point upward toward your higher standard and the place you'll want to be.

Good luck to you!

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© Copyright 2024 by Lawrence Payne. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated or otherwise distributed without permission from the author.