Experience

Every once in a while, I have to remind myself that my standards for a good many things are very, very high. I've had a couple of people comment with surprise at the number of places I've been and the number of odd jobs I've had, among other things, and I suppose I'll just take that as a piece of evidence that my life hasn't been a particularly mundane one... despite my own opinions on the matter.

A frequent piece of advice to writers is to "write what you know". Occasionally, I have to remind myself what I know. While pondering this today, I remembered an experience I had that does a fine job of explaining the importance of experience and how it relates to art.

I've been back and forth across the country on a train a few times. On one such trip, my very last out to California, I made a few acquaintances. One of them was a slightly sleepy looking fellow with a ball cap permanently attached to his head and a closely trimmed beard around a wide, bright grin. He was a younger guy, and apparently affiliated with some church group or other. This was a point of common ground with him and the small squadron of young ladies he was hitting on; he had a guitar, which he was rather good with, and they'd chat and sing and be properly social in what we called the 'Bar Car'.

Somewhere, I've got a scrap of paper with nicknames for all these people, but I have no idea where it is now.

Anyway, at some point in the Midwest, the population of long-trip loiterers acquired one more person. This fellow was of the flannel and hiking boots set, with long brown hair and a rather thin but friendly face and conspicuously large brown eyes. He was stubbly, and projected a very easy-going manner. I chatted with him a few times, and confirmed that he was, indeed, very easy-going. One day, this fellow comes down to the Bar Car, and notices church-guy's guitar sitting nearby. He asks if he can play it. Church-guy says sure, go ahead.

So, the fellow picks up the guitar, lounges on one of the little benches there, and spends a little time tuning it before starting to improvise some of the best Delta Blues style guitar I've heard. He had the casual intensity of a man who really puts something more than the technical into his work. It was very powerful music in the subtle Blues manner, and I would have been happy to listen to it for the rest of the very long trip.

While he's playing, church-guy takes notice, and seems faintly bothered by the fact that this fellow plays guitar much better than he does. We'll call it grudging admiration.

"So," he asks. "Where'd you learn to play blues like that?"

The blues man smiles, looks up from his guitar playing for a moment. "...drink a lot of whiskey."

Apparently, church-guy thinks this is a joke, because he does his great smile and laughs, and then asks again. "No, seriously, where'd you learn to play like that."

The blues man looks up at church-guy again with a kind of bland look and a wry smile, and says again with emphasis "...drink a LOT of whiskey."

It was clear to me that the blues man was talking about way more than whiskey, here, but church-guy just didn't get it. He was puzzled, and eventually quit asking. I wonder sometimes what he ended up doing with his guitar. Sure, he wanted to know about things technical; he wanted to know who the blues man was taught by, and so on. But the blues man was telling him that it was about experience.

I feel the same way about my work. Passion and experience can definitely benefit from technical expertise, but technical expertise isn't going to really burn through a reader's memory unless there's been some whiskey involved.

I have to remind myself that I have plenty of drinking yet to do, and that what I've already done is something I need to share more of.