Creativity: How to Put in the Time

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In the music profession, advice related to the amount of practicing one must do each day abounds. One may have heard that it requires 10,000 hours of practice with an instrument to acquire a “virtuoso” level of skill with it. One may have also heard that several hours of practice per day are required; advice ranges from three to six hours, or even up to eight, depending upon the instrument in question.

There is no doubt that much practice is required to achieve mastery, and that few are willing to invest this much time in learning such a craft. It puzzles me, however, that I have rarely heard this advice given to composers. If one does not speak in these terms, then in what terms does one speak in? How does one achieve creative mastery without thinking in this way? Why is this so, and what might it imply for other aspiring creative professionals?

The language of composers and those in several other professions appears to be different. Composers often speak of the projects over which they currently labor, as well as the projects that they complete. Visual artists speak in the same terms. Authors may speak of their daily word count, though there seems to be no universal agreement regarding what it ought to be; rather, most authors speak in terms of their latest completed work.

The commonality between these professionals is the language of completion. Each creative project is a specific goal that may be broken into simple steps. Each step becomes a sub-project, and the sub-projects are completed before they are brought together to form a coherent whole. My composition teacher never recommended a number of hours for a student to “practice composition”; he simply set deadlines for completion of the projects, and the student had to invest whatever time was necessary to meet these deadlines. Some projects were simple, taking less than an hour to complete. Others were longer-term projects, requiring hours of time invested every day for several months. In many cases, a student worked on multiple projects at a time that varied in length and difficulty. “Putting in the hours” was a means to an end, but was not, itself, the goal.

I have always thought and worked more effectively on these terms. I find simply “putting in the hours” to stifle creativity, as it becomes a directionless, aimless exercise in maintenance. Maintenance of skills is, of course, vital, but it appears that it may be more effectively achieved in service of a greater goal. After all, would one send a ship on a long journey without a destination?

In fact, as I work to complete various projects, I find that I end up investing ample time in the practice of my craft. The time investment is a by-product, or simply a necessary step, rather than the goal. Completing my latest work required several hours of composition daily, which, in turn, required the use of melody, counterpoint, harmony, form, knowledge of instrumentation, editing and engraving, and other aspects of the craft. My skills were maintained and strengthened, and I received for my efforts a completed, saleable project.

To conclude, “putting in the time” seems to be only half of the equation. The other half, and perhaps the more important half, would appear to be the achievement of goals. After all, no one speaks of Beethoven thus: “Beethoven was one of the greatest composers of all time; he spent more hours composing than any of his contemporaries.” Rather, we speak of his ingenious piano sonatas, his epic symphonies, and his innovative use of musical structure. The focus is on his accomplishments, rather than on his processes.

Perhaps this is how a creator should approach all of his work. As one of my trumpet teachers was fond of saying, “Think product, not process.” And, as one of my composition teachers said, “It doesn’t matter how long it took him; all that matters is if it’s any good or not!”

Why does creating a simple idea take so long?

You may read this article on Medium if you wish.

Many would likely hear my music and think it simple. They are correct; it is often exceedingly simple. Much of it sounds as though it was written in only a matter of days, or even in a single sitting, as though I were writing a letter. If one were to hear my latest project, they might believe it was written in mere hours. And indeed, I sometimes hear the question, “How long did that take you?”

For that project, the answer is, “Roughly four months.” The piece is less than fifteen minutes long. The melodies are simple, the structure of the piece is straightforward (though not without the occasional surprise), and the piece demands little in the way of virtuoso technique. And yet, the time required to complete the project seems incredibly disproportionate to the result. Why is this so?

I will return to the analogy of the archaeologist. If he seeks a large, complex statue, and it is intact, he is likely to find it in short order. One simply cannot hide a large object of that nature from trained eyes and practiced excavators for long. If the archaeologist seeks a smaller object, however, he may search for quite some time. After all, it may be buried beneath many other objects, or perhaps even buried within a larger, more complex object. Even after recovering it, he may need to clean the mud off of it, dust it off, and polish it before it will reveal its true beauty.

So it is with creativity. The simplest ideas often take the longest to compose because they are not truly composed, but are discovered. It is easier to discover a large, complicated object (if it is intact) than it is to dust off a small, simple object. The large, obvious object possesses intricate beauty that is often plain from the beginning. The small, simple object takes much time and effort to even locate, and then requires meticulous detail work to reach its potential. Simple ideas require much care and are often challenging to work with. Writing a simple, memorable, beautiful melody is difficult. It is work. It takes time and requires great patience. Some audiences may even criticize the composer as “overly simplistic”, “passé”, or even “amateurish.” Given this risk and the amount of effort involved, why would one bother to write simple ideas at all? Why expend such a large amount of work for such a small return?

Because the return is not small. The simplest ideas speak most loudly. They affect audiences most directly. They are instantly memorable, and because of this, they endure. A simple eight-bar melody could be played live only once, but could then be “stuck” within the mind of an audience member. Contentedly, he hums the tune to himself as he walks out of the concert hall. From here, the tune makes its way into the ears of a passerby, who hums it to another, who hums it others, who whistle it to yet others. By the performance of one single, simple tune, the composer has now benefited countless individuals, some of whom did not even attend the concert. The melody has acquired a life all its own and continues to spread. In this way, a simple tune is one of the only beneficial pandemics.

Is there a place for complex ideas? Of course. There are numerous masterworks that are extraordinarily complex that have endured among audiences for centuries. Interestingly, the greatest masterworks are usually based on only a few simple ideas, which are then developed in complex fashion. A fugue, after all, possesses only a few short motives, each of which may only be several measures in length, but the motives are developed in ingeniously intricate ways (the fugues of Johann Sebastian Bach come to mind). To use a linguistic analogy (and music is a language), this is akin to a discussion of an ageless topic. For example, the concept of “joy” is simple. Discussing it or experiencing it, however, will reveal countless meanings and permutations of the topic that are not immediately apparent. Joy can be explosive. It can be contented. It can be sustained or short-lived. It can come from within or without. It can be intrinsic or acquired. Like a color, it possesses many shades. An observant creator will know how to explore this. A master composer can take a simple motif and convey a variety of emotions through use of harmony, counterpoint, orchestration, and a great plethora of other expressive tools. A writer will put an apparently simple character through numerous trials; by the end of the novel, the reader feels as though the character is a personal friend. A painter can pull the viewer into the image so vividly that it seems real.

How do I know when I have found the right idea? It continuously plays back in my mind, changing as it does so. The tune flies, runs, walks, dances, sings, and chirps its way through the entire orchestra. My mind simply cannot let it go; the possibilities prove inexhaustible. It is but a single spark, but lights an inspirational fire such as cannot be put out. Once this happens, the piece almost “composes itself”, often very quickly.

But reaching this point can take significant time and be fraught with frustration. It will feel as though no progress is being made, no inspiration found, no joy partaken of. One might compare it to beginning an exercise routine; for the initial stages, it will simply hurt. One will see no results. One may even wish to give up. But through persistence, the results begin to show. With music composition, they even begin to compound, and the process accelerates. Eventually, it reaches a “critical mass,” after which it often completes in a creative flash.

For me, this most often happens with a single, simple idea. While they appear small or insignificant, and may even be initially derided, they require great patience to cultivate and will grow into far more than the simple seeds from which they began.

“Forcing” Creativity

Many years ago, I had a discussion with a fellow composer regarding the creative process. We were both students in an electro-acoustic composition class, and there were two other students who were not composition majors. As far as we knew, they had never composed music before. The professor asked us if we had any advice for them.

I started by saying that composing music was a planned process, and that the structure of a piece should be mapped out before composing. This seemed to make sense to them.

My friend completely disagreed. He said that his process was random, chaotic, and that his initial ideas would determine or clarify the structure as he went along. He did not want to “force’ his ideas into a given structure. Over the years, I’ve reflected on this and concluded that we were both “right.” Here’s how:

My composition teacher (not the same professor for this class) said that the most terrifying thing for a composer was a blank page. This is not because we can’t think of anything, but the opposite: we think of everything, all at once. We see numerous possibilities. We could write a joyful piece. We could write a lament. We could compose something silly. We could compose something serious. We could tell the story of a reluctant young hero who rises to the occasion and defeats a terrible evil. We could write a piece with no particular story behind it at all. We could create something with elements of all, or none, of these things. The “decision paralysis” can be overwhelming. How does one break through it? How does one turn this waterfall of potential ideas into a coherent creation?

Building Sandcastles

My friend simply stands beneath the waterfall with a bucket and catches a small amount of what falls. He looks inside and notices bits of dirt, pebbles, and even small living creatures, within the water. He begins with these things and shapes them to his liking, until he has a structured creation that he is happy with. He builds sandcastles out of the sediment. He builds mini-statues out of the pebbles. He populates his “city” with the living creatures.

I stand beneath the same waterfall with a set of specially-shaped pipes, buckets, and cups. The water flows into them in a predetermined pattern, almost like a Rube Goldberg machine. As I observe the result, I notice bits of sediment in places where I did not plan them. I notice pebbles stuck in corners and crevices. I notice some of the pipes leaking, or maybe even the entire structure struggling to maintain its shape. With each “leak,” I have several options:

  1. Keep everything as it is, though the structure is clearly flawed. (“Muscle” the ideas into the structure, even if they do not entirely work. The project will be complete, but the result may appear insincere or “manufactured,” thereby not affecting the audience. This can be a disadvantage of constantly working under tight deadlines: the creative process tends to leave behind these sorts of problems, and tight deadlines leave little or no time for fixing them.)
  2. Preserve the structure by fixing the leak. (Delete musical ideas or elements that have nothing to do with the larger narrative, or do not serve a clear purpose. The result will probably be “lean” and easy for an audience to follow, but may also lack spontaneity or be too predictable.)
  3. Preserve the leak by creating another pipe around it, allowing it to continue to flow. (Change the structure of the piece so that the new idea makes sense. However, this may necessitate adding more structure, or more ideas, elsewhere. One may have to foreshadow the idea in another place, or even rewrite the entire composition, for the ideas to work. This begs the question, “Is this idea worthy of such effort?” Incidentally, this is why many artists speak of needing to get rid of their favorite elements of a project. Other times, leaving a “nonconforming” idea in can cause a piece to be too complicated and impossible for an audience to follow so that they don’t know what you’re doing and aren’t moved by it and can’t remember it and it doesn’t communicate at all, kind of like this run-on sentence.)

What’s the Plan?

How does an artist determine whether or not to begin with a structure in mind? It seems to come down to personal preference. I have tried both approaches, and had more success when using a predetermined structure (even if I change it later). If I begin without an understanding of the structure, I end up sketching randomly and getting no ideas that I am happy with. If I somehow finish a project this way, it often takes a long time, causes massive frustration, and ends up as a rambling mess. I stood below the waterfall without my pipes, and all I got was wet.

Others find that beginning with a structure is too restrictive. They stand below the waterfall with buckets and pipes, and find that no water flows at all. The pipes are too narrow to catch anything the artist likes.

Yet others find that a hybrid approach is effective. They start with a structure (or only a partial one) and allow their initial ideas to flow. The structure simply focuses their creativity enough to break the decision paralysis. Once they have their initial ideas, they use a less structured approach to develop them. I find that this resembles my current process.

My Creative Process

Let’s say I’m composing a theme for a heroic character. I might write down words or phrases that describe his mental state. What is he hoping to accomplish? What does he fear? What sort of movie scene would quintessentially depict him? Taken together, these thoughts help me to “get in character” as an actor might. I am, in a sense, exploring the character’s world. As I do this, themes, rhythms, colors, fragments, and other musical ideas will appear, as though my mind is improvising a soundtrack to the scene. The structure of the scene usually determines the structure of the piece. In this way, the structure is more “discovered” than planned. From there, the composition process involves transcribing the most salient ideas, and then editing and organizing them so that they make sense by themselves. One could even see this as a process of translating the scene from one language to another: from sight to music. (I find the act of writing a story scene to be similar, except that I am translating the images and emotions into words instead of music.)

Ironically, this blog post was written without any real plan. I simply remembered the discussion (more or less) and began to puzzle it out. After getting some initial ideas, I wrote them down using much the same structure you see now. Once it was finished, I did some quick editing. Perhaps this illustrates one of my composition teacher’s most important points: rigid adherence to a procedure for its own sake is not a good idea. Structures, procedures, and techniques are meant to serve the artist, not to be served by him. As the great composer Claude Debussy said, “Great art makes rules. Rules do not make great art.”

For Discussion

  1. How would you describe your creative process? Has it changed, or has it remained the same?
  2. What inspires your best work? How did you discover this?
  3. Have you ever had a discussion like this with another artist? Did you differ on any points?