I’ve spent years writing textbooks, articles, and website copy where sticking to the script is key, so transitioning to writing novels has been an adjustment. While novels do have a certain structure, they have an ambiguity that can feel a bit overwhelming to me. In many ways, it’s similar to playing piano by ear, which is something I’m working on after relying on sheet music my whole life.
Recently, I had a fascinating conversation with a voice teacher, a young woman who studied jazz and music theory in college. I mentioned my efforts to learn how to play by ear but confessed (and I had to laugh at myself) that I wanted detailed instructions on exactly how to do it. She laughed, too, and said she was always asking her professors how to improvise, but they couldn’t quite explain it in a way that clicked. One instructor used a river metaphor—essentially, music is a river, he told her, and you just have to jump in and let the current take you where it will. But like me, she struggled with the uncertainty. What do you mean, “jump in”? Where’s the structure? How do I know if I’m doing it right?
She also shared that she was one of only three women in the program, and we talked about our discomfort with making a mess and how women, especially, are often caught up in observing ourselves and watching how we’re perceived, even as we create. This reminded me of my own experience in a musical group back in high school. I remember sitting with my sheet music in front of me, dutifully following it note by note. Meanwhile, the guys in the band would hear a song once and replicate it on their guitars without glancing at a single note. I’d watch them, feeling a mix of admiration and frustration. It was as if they had this secret language I couldn’t quite grasp. How could they just know what to play without any guidance? What did they understand that I didn’t? It looked like they were flowing along effortlessly in the river of music while I stood on the bank, clutching my sheet music, too afraid to dive in.
This isn’t just a high school memory—every time I’m around musicians who play by ear, I feel that familiar frustration. What is it that stops me from connecting fully with music in a way that would let me play anything, anywhere, the way they can?
In fairness, knowing how to read sheet music is a valuable skill that’s opened up a lot for me musically. And knowing technical aspects like time signatures and rhythmic notation has given me a strong foundation, much like my years of writing nonfiction have helped me understand the fundamentals of writing. But how do I shift gears to embrace the fluidity and spontaneity that’s essential for creative endeavors? Elizabeth George, the acclaimed mystery writer, offers some valuable advice in her book Write Away:
“I write a detailed step outline that I think of as the scaffolding for the novel. This is for the benefit of my left brain, to convince it that I’m in control of things… But once I sit down to write, I have to allow my right brain—my creative side—to take over. That’s where the magic happens.”
Her words struck a chord with me, offering a way to bridge the gap between the structured approach I’m more comfortable with and the creative flow I knew I needed. And she was right. Creating a step outline for my rowing novel has been a game changer, providing the “scaffolding” my left brain needs so my right brain can take over and start making things up.
I’ve found a similar process to help me with musical improvisation. First, I identify the tonic—or “main”—note of a song to figure out its key. That tells me which chords are in the song. From there, it’s a mix of trial and error as I try different chord progressions to work out the song’s structure. My left brain is happy with this organized method and gradually my right brain can start to take over and play around with more expressive voicings and rhythms.
That said, I don’t enjoy hitting a bunch of wrong notes as I try to figure out chord progressions. And it’s maddening when I can’t hear the missing note I need to create a specific sound. It’s hard to resist hopping on the internet to find the sheet music or chord charts that would give me all the answers! But I’m gradually learning to become comfortable with this process, untidy as it is. I have to trust that my knowledge of chords will grow and my ear will get better with practice. In the same way, I have to trust that my writing will improve as I embrace the messiness and uncertainty of the creative process. It might take seventeen tries to describe the sound of oars moving through the water or the way the snow catches the light on Mount Rainier, but each attempt brings me closer to learning how to shape words to capture the moment.
Even though new research shows that our brains are a lot more interconnected than the left-brain/right-brain model suggests, I still find that concept helpful when I’m trying to balance structure and creativity. It’s less about which side of the brain does what and more about giving myself permission to switch gears. Sometimes I need a structured approach to get started, but then I have to remind myself to loosen my grip and see where the process takes me. This struggle to surrender control can feel particularly pronounced for women, I think, especially as we navigate societal expectations. We’ve been taught to be cautious, to observe ourselves, to be the objects of our own stories, always conscious of how we’re seen.
But real magic can happen when we allow ourselves to let go, just like Elizabeth George said—and just as I suspect the guys I played music with in high school learned to do decades ago. Being the subjects of our lives means taking risks, making a mess, and seeing what unfolds. By embracing a bit of chaos, we give ourselves the freedom to explore and find our true voice, both in art and in life.
