While writing my Katyn book manuscript, I not only broke one of my own pedagogical rules I regularly recommend my college students to follow while writing their assignments: avoid being distracted by external stimuli, like phones, social media, and music. In my case, music is a major diversion. I can’t listen to Bach or any music while grading papers; I need absolute silence. Otherwise, the music will tempt me to focus on it, not the students’ papers.
I broke my own teaching rule! (Cue the Judas Priest song, “Breaking the Law.”) While writing my Katyn book manuscript (MSS), I blasted music. The music ranged from Dio era Blach Sabbath to Buddhist monk chants to the Second Movement of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony. Yes, I listen to that music.
Certain songs or musical pieces I would play repeatedly to place myself into a certain mood; depending on the music, I placed myself into a trance in which my unconscious became more receptive to ideas, emotions, and phrases which then became words, which then became paragraphs, which then became pages.
Music was inspiration! Music cleansed me of writer’s block. Music allowed me to think. Music provided rhythms, timbre, and atmosphere to the vignettes, literary analyses, and observations I was writing. Listening to music encouraged me to break barriers, and it led to parts of my soul I was less willing to reveal in my writing, but because of the trance I was in, the music gave me permission to say what I was afraid of or too inhibited to write. Listening to music emboldened me to finish the Katyn MSS.
I love music. I am an amateur guitarist. When I listen to a song, the first thing that comes to mind is: “can I play this?” Being a teenager during the 1980s, I listened to hard rock and heavy metal music; I also listened to classical music: Chopin, Mozart, and others. Learning musical theory, I would listen to a song and determine whether the rock guitarist was playing a G7 major chord or shredding through the D harmonic minor scale.
Listening to a song wasn’t just “banging my head” along with the drumbeat; listening to music meant more. It healed, inspired, empowered, or consoled. Music was another language I spoke. Often being misunderstood or simply unheard, I felt acknowledged by this music and my fellow “metal heads.”
Being called a “metal head” could mean several things. On the one hand, it meant “brother” or “comrade;” being a metal head was a term of endearment if the one calling you one also was a metal head. On the other hand, if someone else damned me as a “metal head,” that person used it as a pejorative, an insult. “Banging your head” implied hurting yourself—you figuratively (and God forbid you actually) banged your head against a wall. Therefore, you were strange, a “weirdo.” It even meant you weren’t intellectually smart; you were “stupid” to bang your hang. Trying to convince skeptics that many hard rockers were college educated and classically trained musicians failed to persuade or impress them of the merits of the music.
Because heavy metal music often was associated with the devil, many people considered this music to be dangerous and terrifying; moreover, devastated parents blamed the music for the suicides of their children. Family, neighbors, and teachers worried I lost my soul. What they never understood—and some still don’t realize—is this music saved my soul; it never destroyed it. I am here because of metal music!
While I wrote my Herman Melville book, I strictly forbade myself from listening to music. It worked. The Melville dissertation was written rather quickly: fourteen months. The Katyn MSS was different. It took me 16 years to finish! I needed new, different modes to write it.
At first, I had applied that harsh, rigid prohibition against music during the early years of writing the Katyn book. In hindsight, I realize one reason for years of writer’s block probably was due to the lack of music as a soundtrack during the composition of the book. So foolish! When I finally admitted I needed a new approach to writing, I also realized that the Katyn MSS required different sources of inspiration; I needed to be more creative.
And music always offered that creative outlet. Why did I deny myself it? Again, so foolish! Then I reminded myself of Rachmaninoff and his Piano Concerto No. 2. Even the greats suffered terrible, debilitating creative breakdowns. Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 healed me, coaxing me out of my own artistic slowdown.
Writing rules are the most reckless when they become obstructions. Writing should be free, especially during the early stages. Therefore, when I return to my classrooms in the Fall, I will offer a new lesson on writing: break the rules when they no longer work for you.