When I was in undergrad, most weekend nights were spent at campus watering holes (translate: dive bars) drinking and dancing. I did fine with the drinking, but was very shy about getting out on the dance floor.
I would hover in corners, escape to the Ladies Room, start can’t-leave conversations—anything to avoid dancing. Eventually, I would become one of the very few people who was not out there having a great time, burning calories, getting high on the music and the crowd’s energy.
AGONY TURNED ECSTACY
Slowly, it would dawn on me that I could stay where I was and have a terrible time for the rest of the evening—or I could take myself in hand and get out there with everybody else. I scanned the crowd, looking for people who were particularly good dancers. I watched them intently, put myself in their heads and bodies, got into their groove. Cautiously, I stood and edged toward the floor, or accepted the next invitation I got to get out there.
The first fifteen seconds were horribly embarrassing—even though it’s unlikely that anybody else noticed—but after that, I felt at one with the music and the people, totally involved and expressive, and had an absolutely great time.
Here’s the thing. I don’t even have two left feet. I’m a terrific athlete, comfortable in my body, and actually a pretty good dancer.
So why was I so shy? I think it was just a change. A change from the mental and physical rhythm of sitting in class, studying, meeting people for coffee, and not dancing all week. A change from serious person to wild woman, flailing away with all the other beer drinkers. A change from familiar to less familiar. A change from the comfortable status quo, to something imaginative and potentially revealing.
MUSIC TURNED MUSE
Sometimes I encounter this same dynamic in writing. I don’t want to start a new piece. I don’t want to go back and restructure that book, or even edit it. I’m afraid I’ll be awkward and sticky-outy, less than fast and cool. As with dancing, I’m afraid I won’t look good—even if just to myself.
I start to develop a block. Nobody has a gun to my head, after all, just as nobody had a gun to my head to get out onto the dance floor. I don’t have to do it. But, as with dancing, I know I’m in for some serious misery if I don’t get out there.
So I turn on the computer, open the file, and start typing. Strangely, the same thing happens as happened back in school. Just getting out on the dance floor seems to call the Muse. There may be a few seconds of awkwardness at first—but very quickly, I know just what to say, or just how to fix what I said before. I get into what I’m doing and have a wonderful time.
I’m dancing! And all it took was standing up and walking out onto the floor. Or sitting down and starting to write.