I posted a few weeks ago about starting a wall of sticky notes in the name of writing...something. Since then the number of notes has increased, but the final form remains elusive. I'm certain there's at least one lyric here. Other things may be poems? Hard to say.
Even if I don't know much about the product, I think I've figured out a few things about the process.
First, the habit of noting odd ideas or phrases is an old one; many of these would normally have gone into my lyric notebook (and, perhaps unsurprisingly, I have written in there less since starting this). When I was writing more prose, these might have found their way into background descriptions.
First, the habit of noting odd ideas or phrases is an old one; many of these would normally have gone into my lyric notebook (and, perhaps unsurprisingly, I have written in there less since starting this). When I was writing more prose, these might have found their way into background descriptions.
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Second, whereas ideas in the notebook often vanish, these persist, since I see them every day as I work. I don't actually know if that's good. They gain a sense of inevitability this way—and although you want that in a lyric, it should come from the lyric's strength, not your own overfamiliarity. Ideas in the notebook have to fight harder to claim a part of my attention. They wind up culling themselves that way. These gain profundity by position.
Third, I notice that I actively look for phrases to include as I go through my day. As when I joined friends for collaborative poetry projects—a sonnet line exchange, a haiku notebook passed back and forth—the world seems to come alive with details and words. This I love: the reminder that the ability to notice is, more than anything else, a choice. (And whew, does that remind me of the sheer number of chaotic, abandoned writing experiments with which my past is littered.)
Third, I notice that I actively look for phrases to include as I go through my day. As when I joined friends for collaborative poetry projects—a sonnet line exchange, a haiku notebook passed back and forth—the world seems to come alive with details and words. This I love: the reminder that the ability to notice is, more than anything else, a choice. (And whew, does that remind me of the sheer number of chaotic, abandoned writing experiments with which my past is littered.)
| I also quite enjoy the way juxtaposition creates new rhythms and ideas as the notes accrete and spread across the wall. As a rule, it's best not to think too much about the origins of a phrase—it should work in its new context without relying on that background information—but I love knowing that mean, in the note at right, was an adjective when I wrote it down and became a verb as soon as it was next to another note. I don't entirely have control over that, and I suspect that the lack of control is good for me. The next step is probably to hand all the notes over to the band and see what new combinations emerge. |  |
Where does it all go? I don't know. In cleaning out my office I just found an ancient sticky note, adhesive caked with grit, on which I had written Today I will practice calm. (Erm. That worked.) The transient nature of sticky notes probably means you shouldn't take them too seriously.
Postscript: I just read the NYT piece on creativity, and the footer recommended this one, with its photo of a Post-It wall, from 2014. I don't know what that juxtaposition means either.
Postscript: I just read the NYT piece on creativity, and the footer recommended this one, with its photo of a Post-It wall, from 2014. I don't know what that juxtaposition means either.
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