Rhythms
By Kathryn Magendie | June 9, 2018 |
Photo Credit: Ryo
‘dance with butterflies’
There is a rhythm to the writing, as there is to the reading. The writer through the language places words, phrases, paragraphs onto the page, much as a musician composes music and then sends it out to the world for listeners to enjoy—except as the writer, we often do not recognize how we are creating poetry and music with a full beated heart. When I am writing, I am not aware of the rhythm. I am manipulating the language, but its rhythm comes from instinct, not from controlled purpose—that is how it works for me. How it works for you is your own. It is only now as I read over this draft that I wonder, “Is there a rhythm here? Can I manipulate it so there is one to make my post more effective?” But I only sit and contemplate that idea, knowing to ‘try’ or to ‘attempt’ this will only make me feel too aware and that too aware will kill the very thing I want to create. That is how I work.
When reading an author’s book, I am not at first aware of the cadence or lack of it; only when I’ve put the book down and reflect on my experience will the coordinating pulse become apparent. I am reading a novel now where, much as I want to, I cannot pace the beat. The author is well-known, and the story is one I want to read (and I will), but I am aware that something is not quite right: the rhythms are off, off, off. I stagger and stumble through the words, finding the beauty in this author’s ideas, but our dance is clumsy.
Similarly, a few months ago I began a novel and while reading the first two chapters, I had the urge to put the book down; something just wasn’t right between us. I felt awkward with my partner. But curiosity, and professional understanding and empathy for the hard work and the process, kept me reading to the third chapter, then the fourth, and along the way, I tapped into the rhythm of the writer’s words and began to enjoy the book in a way I cannot find with this current novel I’m reading. I thought, I’m so glad I didn’t put the book away or I’d have missed this waltz. I simply needed to fall in step with the writer: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three….
My writer—and I love saying “my writer,” as if we have a bond, and we do—has no awareness of how in-tune we are to one another in the moments of my reading the author’s words. The author doesn’t know I am swaying in time, lifting up then setting down, dipping, rising, falling. The writer and I have never been closer and I wish I could turn my head, look up into that expectant face, and say, “Your words have affected me, moved me, made me laugh, entertained me, made me think. I … I love you.”
The characters dance along with us, apparitions who become solid and real through the sure hand of the author’s writing. The hand at my back, warm, sexy, powerful, guides me here, there, here, there, to places and events and people, and emotions that fill my body to full-bursting. Melodic conversation enlivens the room. My bedroom becomes whatever the writer says it becomes, just by the power of the author’s words. I lose control. I lose my mind. I gain everything. Everything! My head spins with possibility. Writer and reader. Close. Closer.
When I close the book for the night, I have to re-orient myself to space and time, to the silence in the room, the absence of character, language, song. I long for one more page, and I look forward to our next encounter, when Writer and I meet again, when the author will move me about the room. Yes, there are missteps; sometimes I step on a foot or mine will be crushed, sometimes there is a discordant tone, or we bump into someone who moves in the way. But I don’t care. We are partners: Reader and Writer. The most lasting of loves. The beauty of it all is stunning.
When I find the last page, the last phrase, the last word, I know I will never be the same, and I will grieve our parting.
I have this hope: that when others read my work they feel the rhythm with me, that I lead them through the beauty of the language, that together we dance. That they stay with me until we are partners. That they fall in love and never forget a thing.
As a reader, do you experience that dance? As a writer, do you hope your reader does?
Author, Content Editor at Edge of Arlington, and along with Angie Ledbetter, former Publishing Editor of The Rose & Thorn online journal.
Her short stories, essays, poetry, and photography have been published in print and online publications. Her novels are available in print and ebook. TENDER GRACES, Magendie’s first novel, was an Amazon Kindle Number 1 best-seller.
She lives in the Smoky Mountains in a little log home in the Cove at Killian Knob in Maggie Valley, Western North Carolina with her wonky-toothed little dog named Bear. Trees surround her. The mountains hug around her. Critters love her. Crows follow her around the Cove. Bears stare at her through her window. One day she’ll finish another novel.
Some or all of this is true.
An ode to reading – lovely and lyrical.
Very nice!
Thank you! *smiling*
I’ve experience that a couple of books. The feeling that doesn’t quite mesh but given time becomes a good book. Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson was most like this for me.
I’ve even put books down and gone back to them a year or more later and then enjoyed them :)
I’ve not read that book. I’m going to look it up.
Your post is beautiful and so true!
Smiling warmly ….
This gorgeous essay is the perfect start to my rainy Saturday. I’d only planned on doing two things today: laundry and read.
The last time this dance happened for me was with Salt to the Sea, by Ruta Sepetys. She left me alone on the dance floor, weepy and mournful. But in such a beautiful way. You’re right: I know I will never be the same.
Thanks for the great start, Kat. Have a wonderful weekend.
Laundry & reading! What a relaxing day. We went to the Water Release – it’s spectacular and awesome and incredible and I look forward to it every year.
Another book for me to look up!
Well put. Maybe the difference is in the why. Why is the dance awkward? What precisely is causing the missteps? Could it be me being an inflexible reader?
As a writer, I design the dance. Which may mean that others who are not flexible in the right way (my way, for the purpose of this example) will find the experience off-putting. And that the readers who do like my writing, get me in some deeper way.
As a reader, I used to just read everything I could get my hands on. Now, I have much less patience. I’ll give someone even a chapter or two – most readers don’t make it that far in a book they don’t get in sync with – but the red flags are accumulating. The wrong synonym. A misspelling (alot, alright), careless punctuation, an awkwardness in phrasing, repeating the same noun, a tick (mine is using ‘get’ too often when I first put a scene into words, so I’m aware of the ticks of other writers).
I don’t have enough time for the work I want to read, so I don’t have to dance the ones which are obviously not working out.
This is true – and I often feel the same way, as I have less time to read now than I used to. But every so often, I just want to give that writer another look, another chapter. :) Sometimes I wished I hadn’t *laugh!* but sometimes not.
Kathryn, what a beautiful post. I loved reading. I am a great proponent of all writers studying poetry. The prose we write still has stressed and unstressed syllables that fall into place as we draft our stories. It isn’t something we think about, that’s true. But it is something that comes together, and that’s how we know the story is ready. When we read it aloud and sense the musicality, the moment, the rhythm. *waving from Asheville*
Hello from Maggie Valley! *waving back* – :D
And that “knowing” is the scary part sometimes – like we’re on the dance floor all alone while an audience watches and judges and scores us at the end – lawd!
Beautiful writing, Kathryn. You touched this reader’s soul with such understanding. Thank you.
Thank you … smiling
Kathryn, yes. When an author’s rhythm, whether it’s a diction thing, a cadence thing, an alliterative thing, a punctuation thing, an allusive (and elusive and illusive) thing, or just a thang thing, a reader leans in, listens more attentively, eats the words.
I had that most recently with Mohsin Hamid’s “Exit West,” which had such a beguiling prose style, kind of a modernist fable, that made me as captivated by the flow of language as by the story. And the story was excellent. Thanks for a good post!
I will look up that book too! Thank you, Tom