Musicology of the Novel: A Lesson in Structure and Pacing (with some charts…)
By Julianna Baggott | March 1, 2013 |
photo by Tiberiu Ana
My mother was a concert pianist.
Well, she actually gave up a scholarship to study, post-college, in Rome. But there were two things that stopped her. 1. She’d met my father who, I do believe — and I’m not just trying to retroactively protect my own existence — was worth at least waffling over and 2. Performing made her want to throw up. Already an anxious human being, my mother would play on the baby grand in our tight living room with our dog — a high-strung dalmatian — who would curl underneath it — having developed a nervous palsy all her own. (Nervousness can be contagious.)
So, my mother would play grand pieces and there are certain classical pieces — brilliant, breathtaking, demanding music — that, if heard today, send one clear message: Your mother is having that kind of day.
During my childhood, while my mother coaxed me to throw around the phrase “My mother is a concert pianist,” she was mainly a piano teacher. And when I came home from school, I heard a lot of counting. “One, two, three, four, and HOLD, two, three four….”
I was also a piano student, bouncing from one teacher to the next, until I was eventually without a teacher. My mother complained to a fellow pianist that all the teachers in town were booked up. And the woman, kindly, told my mother they weren’t.
“No one wants to teach your children piano, Glenda,” she said. We had a bad rep, maybe me especially. I never practiced. I was so wiggly that one teacher suggested dance lessons instead — a smart call actually.
But in any case, I stared at a lot of sheet music, heard a lot of music, AND a lot of counting.
It’s this counting I’d like to apply to the making of a book by way of chapters and narrative point of view.
(Look, if you have actually studied music theory in depth and you’re a writer and you haven’t applied the lessons to writing, you should.)
After I write a novel or mid-novel, I like to hear how it counts out its beats.
So, I make a graph. Not always, but often enough. If it’s a novel with one narrative voice, the X axis is narration, the Y axis is page numbers. By drawing a line, with chapter breaks, I can tell where the novel’s chapters extend — holding a note — where they uptick in tempo and chapters are coming quickly. I can play that against my own ideas on the novel’s pacing — the pacing that exists in my Platonic version of the novel, held solely in my head.
This is a way to make the intangible shape of the novel tangible. (For a break down of how I think of plotting versus the wilderness in connection to brain science, click here.)
IF the novel has many points of view, the juggling of narrative voices is part of pacing — it becomes orchestral.
To see this, the X axis has a list of all characters’ names who have a point of view and/or narrative voice. As I’m not Russian (and lack Russian narrative confidence), my points of view change chapter by chapter, not within a chapter. (I don’t suggest one do this retroactively with TO THE LIGHTHOUSE; you feelin’ me?) So there’s only one line running the Y axis at any given point, but it jumps up and down depending on who’s narrating. In this way, I can see — at a glance — where one voice disappears for too long, where one character dominates, where my main characters go missing… I also see the overall tempo — long, quick-quick-quick, hold and two, hold two three four, and quick quick, etc …
Here’s an example.
Listen, if you want to make a chart, make a chart.
Further, if you hate charts — and I do actually hate charts — don’t make a chart.
There’s a time when you must exist, submerged — alone and drowning — in the world you’ve created. You have to dwell there until the fine silt of your subconscious rises in clouds and you can’t see anything around you. You have to exist by touch and feel. But then there are times when you come up for air. When you are taking those steadying breaths again, and this might be the time to approach your work, chartingly. The craft exists, for me, subconsciously as well as consciously. It rises up from the heart and yet is still an intellectual process too. It’s visual and the reel spins in my head and yet it is an object for me to look at objectively. It’s all these things.
The question is this — are you getting to know your own process? I think this is a very healthy thing.
Julianna Baggott is the author of over 20 books, including two New York Times Notable Books of the Year, PURE and HARRIET WOLF’S SEVENTH BOOK OF WONDERS. She runs a film and television production company, Mildred’s Moving Picture Show,. Her latest book I’D REALLY PREFER NOT TO BE HERE WITH YOU is a collection of stories, many of which are in development at places like Netflix, Paramount, and Amblin. The feature film WHICH BRINGS ME TO YOU, based on the novel she co-wrote with Steve Almond, is currently streaming. www.juliannabaggott.com
Julianna, How very cool to think of the voices/pov and orchestration in this very lyrical way. and you know, maybe it was your intent? but I can really hear your chart- and a metronome off in the distance! I agree that there is a time for charting and to be wise to your own process, is at least half of the battle. how lucky you were to have a pianist, concert pianist, for a mom! Merci for sharing your pacing pointers.
Wow, this is the coolest s**t ever — I would never be able to do it with my weird pea-head black hole brain limitations, but it intrigues me. In fact, you’d make a great character in one of my books – you and your mother *laugh* — I like characters who think in different ways, or have some kind of quirk (sorry to apply “quirk” to you) or have some kind of “ability” or whatever that makes them interesting or unique or just a little bit in their own heads because something in their heads clicks in a certain unique way . . . .
kewl post . . .
Wow, as much as I love music, when I started reading, I thought, “I’ll never utilize what Julianna is talking about here.” But I enjoy hearing your voice, so I kept reading.
And–I’ll say it again–Wow! am I glad I kept reading. That last paragraph is a stunner. So apt, and even though I’m not sure I do know my own process (still sorting after nine years), in hearing your words here I feel like there is hope that I’ll find it. So thank you!
Julianna,
What an interesting approach to structure. I’ve found myself delving into craft books these days to better understand structure. I’m a pantser at heart, but I realize I need to spend more time outlining and pre-planning before I write. I’m intrigued by your process. And I’m also a frustrated piano player who washed out after three years of lessons. Thanks for sharing your process.
I’m writiing a novel with three major narrative voices that converge at the end. Though I’m not musical–except in listening–this gave me a good picture on how notes should repeat and stretch the story. Thanks.
Julianna, the second this came into my in-box and I saw the word “musicology” I clicked right through—I LOVE applications of other arts to the writing process, as I also come from a family with a multi-arts background.
This post is rife with the kind of tension with which we should infuse our stories! Most of it is about analysis and control, but then this glorious line: “There’s a time when you must exist, submerged — alone and drowning — in the world you’ve created.” We must analyze what we can AND surrender to creative process—no short order, but exactly right.
Thank you so much for this!
Terrific article! Love the connection between music and writing! I’ve always thought that all forms of creativity are connected at the deepest levels. Actors paint, writers sing, artists play musical instruments…the creative process crosses over the boundaries of medium, and in so doing, enriches all endeavors. Thank you for giving us a fresh way of looking at those connections and the creative process.
You need to find a system that works for you, speaks to you personally. Kudos to you, Julianne, for finding your right key. :)
Denise Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth
This is just one more way to try to get at it. The process changes for every novel — each one makes demands and you have to come up with new ways to rise to those demands. This charting is quick and when that creative generating part of your mind feels fried, this is a way to work, sleeves rolled up, in a different way. Glad it’s striking some of you as helpful…
Writer Unboxed is on a roll. Two brilliant posts in a row. Thank you!
And I love this analysis of cadence, rhythm and “voicing” and narrative energy/ drive.
I believe that seeing the dimension in our work – seeing it live, seeing its energy – drawing it, dancing it – is absolutely key to shaping it, sculpting it, if you will. And this added dimension is also what gives the work vibrance and lifts it from the page.
My first playwriting teacher, Arthur Kopit, told me: If your play had no words and existed solely as movement (dance) the story should still be clear.
That last paragraph is a stunner, Julianna.
But as to the process, this amateur piano approves. I’ve seen outlines that do almost as much, if proceeding vertically rather than horizontally, but they don’t visually address chapter or scene length, which is obviously important. I suppose one could even color the notes for intensity or mood.
Oh, I love this idea. I was one of those long-time piano students who rarely practiced too, and I do often make charts that look at structure and such in my novels, but never thought to frame it musically. Brilliant! Can’t wait to try this. Thank you!
What a great post, Julianna!
I’ve never thought of it in such linear terms, but yes, through trial and error, I’m finding a process that works for me. Especially with contracts and deadlines coming into play, I’ve found knowing the process really helpful for helping me produce cleaner copy faster.
Thanks for the insight and the wonderful analogy!
LOVE THIS. LOVE.
My favorite: “There’s a time when you must exist, submerged — alone and drowning — in the world you’ve created. You have to dwell there until the fine silt of your subconscious rises in clouds and you can’t see anything around you. You have to exist by touch and feel. But then there are times when you come up for air.”
Usually those times are heralded by someone shrieking “I can’t find my karate pants!” or “She won’t stop singing Katy Perry!” or whatever… but I love this explanation of the separation between the intuitive process and the analytical process. The intuitive stuff is LIKE DROWNING. And obviously, you don’t want to drown ALL the time, because drowning means you’re dying. Which is bad.
Please teach 3 panels on this topic soon.
Since music and writing are my two passions, this was amazing! The theory parts of music have always taken longer for me to grasp, but I think the same goes for the analytical parts of my own writing. So combining the two may take some practice and work, but will definitely pay off! It is important to me that my writing comes off as intentional and by charting it this way I can catch things and make connections stronger and make the overall arc more consistent and fitting.
Thanks for this post! I love the anecdotal beginning!
Shapes and sounds of nature have their own rhythms. Words are products of human mind, and they provide specific ways of expression and communication. I believe they are capable of transmitting any idea and feeling, including the waves of a perfect music. Not in an identical way, but with an alternative one.
Thank you for sharing this post.
This is a print-worthy post!
I am intrigued and encouraged by your approach: first, getting the story out, and only then charting the structure, rather than the other way around. Music is such an appropriate metaphor for a novel. A piece of music tries to organize tones in a way that makes sense and sounds beautiful (or dramatic or jarring, depending on what the composer intends) Your post reminds me that a novel tries to do the same thing, to set down an event in a life in a way that makes sense and resonates with the reader in a memorable way.
Both books and music combine mind and heart. Thank you for the very tangible reminder.
I love the chart. And I don’t usually care for any mathematical. Thanks!
I’ve read lots of different suggestions on how to “map” out the strands of a novel, but this one really clicks for me. I love the chart concept and the visual of the xy axis. Thanks for a great tip, and for an eloquent description of that submersion. Lovely.
This chart is a brilliant idea. I’m working on a novel with multiple third-person POVs, so I’m going to steal this and use it. Thanks!
Music has always been a terrible blind spot (or deaf) spot for me. But I think this is a really smart analogy. Both narratives and symphonies come down to the art of placing and pacing events in time. Writers more typically compare themselves to visual artists, but maybe musicians are our closer cousins. Have you ever thought of comparing writing to chess?
Such a great connection, with heart and intellect melding in both arts!
This graphic approach is worth a try. Thanks. :)
This is such a keeper article; thanks! I’m a pianist and know some theory and sometimes think of working in “movements,” but I’d never thought of charting characters’ presence like this. (I’m not much of a charter.) But I will try this! Thanks much, Julianna.
Great post. William Goldman describes something similar in Adventures in the Screen Trade about planning the screenplay for Grand Hotel as if he were composing a piece of music. His notation wasn’t quite the same as yours but it’s worth a look.
However, the physicist in me (30 years dormant, but never gone) has to point out that the y-axis is the one that goes up and down. The x-axis goes left to right. Snow’s Two Cultures are still alive and well :)
Fascinating stuff. Listen, I think it all boils down to “Listen.”