(If you missed the first Flights of Foundry roundup post on critique, have no fear! Click here.)
I have to admit fault: while I did indeed get busy between the last blog post and this one (copyedits and proofreads on books not mine, reading manuscripts, JAMDAM, revision turned in, book 2 pitch and synopsis turned in, personal life stuff), I was reluctant to write it not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I didn’t know what order to say things in. I’m a teacher—a pedagogue, no less—and information flow is a critical issue for me. And so I hesitated for over a month on tackling decolonization, even in the sort-of narrow scope in which we talked about it during the Decolonizing our Narrative Traditions panel at Flights of Foundry.
I figured eventually that I’d have to bite the bullet and go for it because some writing is better than no writing. It’s funny to me how I typically don’t get writer’s block when I’m working on a novel, but I’ll get stuffed up for blog posts. So here I am, unsticking the pipes (does this mean I should write a post about writer’s block?).
I’d been highly anticipating the decolonization panel since I found out I’d be on it, and it’s no secret why. I’m passionate about how colonialist and imperialist ideas filter into speculative fiction specifically, and I’m always excited to chat about this topic, especially with a moderator and panelists I like and admire. Our moderator was the wonderful Vida Cruz (vidacruz.org; here’s her Ways to Decolonize Your Fiction Writing presentation from FoF 2021), and I was joined by panelists Zhui Ning Chang (zhuiningchang.com), Fatima Taqvi (fatimataqvi.com), and Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki (odekpeki.com; congratulations go to Oghenechovwe again for his Nebula win for “O2 Arena”).
Prior to the panel, Vida sent out a list of questions for us to peruse and possibly to discuss in the prep stage. I’ll admit that I prepped more for this panel than my other panels. I rarely write a full page of notes, but I went top to bottom in my notebook for this. And that was before I started addressing the questions Vida had sent. A look back at the email chain revealed our discussion of what exactly decolonizing our narrative traditions meant. Did it mean consciously removing colonialist and imperialist thinking? Did it mean exploring non-three-act structures and educating Westerners on what they were, their history, and what to expect? Did it mean creating fiction set in post-colonial worlds? (Now that I’m thinking about it, it’s no wonder I had a hard time finding a starting point for this blog post.)
We tried to address all the above questions during the panel, beginning with non-Western storytelling structures. By now, many people have heard of the East Asian four-act, which in Japanese is called kishoutenketsu (spelled here with an ou because I can’t for the life of me find the o with a macron) and in Chinese is called 起承轉結 (qǐ chéng zhuǎn jié, start/rise continue turn conclude), and Zhui Ning talked a bit about it. It’s the format that Henry Lien has lectured on (here’s a link to his blog post for SFWA: https://www.sfwa.org/2021/01/05/diversity-plus-diverse-story-forms-and-themes-not-just-diverse-faces/). For me personally, a structure that’s remained with me is less of a structure and more of a style, which is the episodic format that many Chinese epics use. For example, in the wuxia classic Legend of the Condor Heroes, each section has its own rising and falling action, which when compiled with the many other sections reveals an overall plot arc. Fatima talked about a Persian and Urdu epic form called dastan/dastaan, which I won’t elaborate on in this post because I’m not familiar with it! But the heart of it involves a Big Hero and a joker/jester sidekick character. And Oghenechovwe talked about how, growing up in Nigeria, he had access to Western science fiction and fantasy—demonstrating the reach of Western literary norms.
What I found quite interesting about the panel was when Oghenechovwe began talking about what decolonization in speculative fiction meant to him: a tight focus on local events, for example, and centering character. I’d go more into detail, but it’s been a couple of months and the memory is fuzzy. But then he dovetailed into climate fiction as decolonial, which, I admit, kind of blew my mind because of how correct he is. Cli-fi often involves a breakdown of social norms, a reshuffling of political and economic power, usually with movement to the extreme ends of the spectrum, and deals with local impacts of a changing climate or climate disaster. Climate fiction is growing increasingly popular these days, and it’s no surprise to me why that is: traditional publishing is overwhelmingly Western and white, and as climate change begins to threaten Western cities, more people are turning to cli-fi as a means of processing what might happen to them in the future. It’s inherently human not to care about an issue until it personally affects you, but it’s also indicative of how strongly the West centers itself when it comes to ongoing global crises. Perish the thought of New York City or Miami being lost to hurricanes or for Los Angeles to be lost to wildfires. Meanwhile, for many non-Western people, especially those in island nations, living on the coastlands of the Global South, or in zones where extreme weather already exists and is being exacerbated by temperature rises, climate fiction isn’t fiction but reality.
That brings me to what I wanted to address most on the panel but didn’t get to because of time constraints. Again, I’m a teacher at heart, and I always want to know concretely what something is and what to do about it. For some in attendance, the definition of colonialism remained murky, and thus the concept of decolonization couldn’t be grasped tightly because of the lack of definition. Our dictionary (Merriam-Webster, the industry standard) says thus:
inflected form(s): plural -s
1: the quality or state of being colonial
2: a custom, idiom, idea, notion, or style characteristic of a colony: provincialism
3: the aggregate of various economic, political, and social policies by which an imperial power maintains or extends its control over other areas or peoples: practice of or belief in acquiring and retaining colonies
It’s somewhat informative but doesn’t grant a larger picture. For myself, in my notes, I jotted down what I think are hallmarks of colonialism in SFF:
These are big ideas to take in. After all, so much of science fiction and fantasy is about imagining another world, or about the movement of nations against each other on grand scales, or about how heroes must rise to fight against invading kingdoms. A lot of classic horror leans on the fear of becoming or encountering an Other or embracing a breakdown of societal structure. When we think about decolonizing SFFH, it might feel like an insurmountable task to toss these underpinnings.
But it’s not impossible. I’d encourage authors who want to interrogate the colonial assumptions of SFFH to start with one or two ideas. What happens, for example, if we do away with exploration stories or reframed exploration as a violent act? What role does direct conflict play, and can story events unfold without causality? What if we asked whether religion is necessary and whether it needs to have moral code or guide to “good” and “bad”? Is it necessary to spread religion? And from there, the next step might be asking what sovereignty means in a secondary world, or what importance borders have. What role does royalty play, and does royalty have a place in a secondary world? If there are classes based on wealth, where does the wealth come from and who does the labor to produce the wealth? Is any of that truly necessary? And if it is, what would you as the author like to say about those structures?
Try narrowing the scope to a village or town or city-state. Examine whether the political ideas championed by the West in the twentieth century are needed in this world. Western democracy, for example, isn’t always the best form of government and neither is monarchy. Delve into older structural forms that already exist in the West but have been erased by Hollywood’s cultural hegemony (or the English, or the French, or the Portuguese, or the Spanish, or whoever’s been conquering other people at any given time in Western European history). Imperialism touches us all, and Europeans are no exception. Be inspired by non-book structures, like two-act plays or Shakespeare’s five-acts. Look to folk tales, song cycles, or oral histories. I’m deliberately not speaking of non-Western forms here because I want marginalized authors to be centered within that space and to have the opportunity to tell their tales before getting Columbused by publishing.
And so it comes full circle back to what I as a Taiwanese American author might choose to write about or not write about. Taiwan is, in a word, complicated. I am the product of colonists who have had a long history of being colonized, and I was born in and currently live in an imperialist nation built on genocide and chattel slavery. Over the centuries, Taiwan has been colonized by the Chinese, the Portuguese, the Japanese, and the Chinese again, and only in the last several decades have the Taiwanese been able to self-determine and come to grips with their multiply-colonized history. Still, Chinese imperialism is both the mailed fist and the velvet glove. It’s an open violence and a subtle violence. Mandarin was my first language, not Taiwanese Hokkien, and that's because of the martial law imposed on Taiwan that banned Taiwanese from being spoken. When I consider my background, it can sometimes be incredibly depressing to see how deeply colonialism has impacted me and how I may unwittingly write that into my work, which necessitates a lot of thinking and turning story concepts over and over, sometimes for years.
But that’s how it goes, right? Decolonization is a moving target. All I can do is try not to mimic without thought and hope that others out there can begin to see how colonialism and imperialism is woven into our society—because once we can see clearly, a new horizon will open to us. And I look forward to reading fresh, exciting literature as a result.
Last weekend, I participated in my first Flights of Foundry, a free online convention for speculative fiction run by Dream Foundry. I had a good time and a pleasant experience, especially as someone who had four (4!!!) panels to speak on, as well as a chill-and-chat. Three of the panels were editing-related, and the fourth panel was on decolonization of (Western) narrative traditions.
The decolonization panel is going to need its own post and, quite possibly, a series of posts. I have strong feelings regarding colonization and how that's shaped Western science fiction and fantasy and our view of the Other because Western colonization has directly impacted how women of color are viewed and treated in Western society today. You can draw a straight line, basically, from things like the French invasion of Vietnam and Polynesia to violence committed against Asian and Pacific Islander women anno Domini nostri Jesu Christi 2022.
That's getting a bit dark for this particular post, so I'm going to put a pin in that (this is now a phrase I lean on a whole lot? Apologies). This first post is about my panel, "Fiction Critiques: What to Take and Leave Behind." I got to sit on this panel with my lovely moderator, George Jreije (author of Shad Hadid and the Alchemists of Alexandria), and co-panelists Nino Cipri and Monica Louzon. And we had a great time thanks to George's editorial experience and relaxed, conversational moderation style.
I did some prep prior to the panel, and I figured it'd be useful for newer writers or newer critics (sounds really judgy, yikes) to share that here. One of the most common questions I see is, "How do I give critique?" This is a broad question, so I ended up breaking it down into two categories: action feedback and vibes feedback.
But before I address what those mean, I need to lay some foundational work. The best critique experience you'll have as either a writer or a critic/reader is to be specific in your parameters about what you want. That specificity will inform the type of critique you receive. So often, writers will ask for feedback from a reader and receive crit that's too harsh and too specific, or too nebulous or too general. Before you send out something to be read, think about what your goals are. I promise that you do have goals more specific than, "Is this good?"
So: the types of critique. A lot of people talk about useful critique and not-useful critique, which makes sense to a writer because not all critique can be acted upon, whether it's because it's the wrong critique for you ("I don't get the Asian part") or critique that's incapable of engendering action ("I couldn't stay interested"). However, I'd like to reframe utility itself. Instead of calling crit useful or not, let's look at it as action-based critique and vibes/emotional/mood-based critique.
Action-based critique, or action feedback, is specific and nonjudgmental. It is feedback that points to concrete aspects of your story and may indicate a solution. For example, "Too many events feel crowded into the middle or end and not the front" is actionable pacing critique. "I thought the inciting incident happened in chapter x on page n, and that occurred too far in for me" is also actionable because you can compare what your reader thought to what you intended and retune your story if there's a mismatch.
Vibes-based critique, or vibes feedback, is vague and based on the reader experience. You can call vibes mood or emotion or feeling or gut. Vibes feedback is the reaction video of feedback. Reaction videos never give advice--and why would they? It's not like the creator of the video is able to fix anything now that the video is out. "The pacing felt off" is vibes feedback, as is "I couldn't connect to this character." This particular type of feedback has no immediate solution and may result in the writer going, "What does that mean? How do I fix this?" This doesn't mean vibes feedback isn't useful, though. It's data. Collect enough of it, and a pattern may emerge that you can then address in revision.
To get a good crit experience, arrive at the table already knowing what you want. Do you want a gut check/up-down vote? That's vibes feedback or data collection feedback and puts the least amount of burden on your reader. This is not a bad way to test out potential readers, actually. Swap chapters, read for vibes, give your opinion (notice I did not say assessment). If you want something specific and actionable, ask for it. Do you feel your pacing/characterization/worldbuilding is off? Ask your reader to look at those things. If there's other feedback, that's a bonus!
The opening moments of the panel were devoted to types of critique, and I rattled off several that got the audience asking questions. Essentially, as a writer, you can ask for a positivity pass, a gut check or first impression, or a detailed look at certain aspects of your story. These are and/or situations, but again, to alleviate reader burden, it's best to start with just one. A positivity pass is a read with positive feedback only. Gut checks ask the question, "Would you read on? Have I hooked you?" And the detailed look falls into the realm of the critique partner, the person who takes a magnifying glass to your story and zeroes in on its weaknesses.
Ah, the critique partner. This term can be interchangeable with the beta reader or exist along the beta reader-critique partner continuum. Personally, I divide my readers into alpha readers, beta readers, and critique partners. My husband is my alpha reader, the person who sees whatever it was I just vomited and gives some general opinion-based feedback. He operates in the Mr. Le Guin sphere where he reads my thing and says, "That's good, honey," and that's all I want or expect from him. My writing friends are potential beta readers who read a chapter or two or half the book or the whole book and cheer me on or yell at me as needed. And my critique partner, of which I only have one currently, is my microscope user who watches my progress from chiseling the rock out of the mountain, to hauling it back to the studio, to staring at it to find what I'm going to sculpt, to smashing my thumb multiple times as I am tapping away. She gives me detailed breakdowns of chapters, an overarching look at characters, pace, and plot, and points out discrepancies in timeline of events and language usage.
One warning, though, to close out this post, which is based on personal experience because we've all needed to start from somewhere (it's me, I was the asshole, and now I'm a copyeditor, so at least the nitpickiness was put to good use). Do not, unless the writer asks you to, "fix" grammar in someone's manuscript. Simply do not do it. It's overwhelming, first of all, and it's surface-level reading. Don't let the dressing of the writing distract you from the substance of the writing. Gently query the places where you are confused. But for the most part, you should be able to understand the intent and meaning of the piece you're reading without hauling the red pen out.
Okay! That's the end of this incredibly disjointed and bumpy post. Next time, hopefully, I'll talk about the decolonization panel, which needed to be much longer than fifty minutes and could just be a course in itself.
I went a small bit of viral over the weekend because of a Twitter post I made for modeling a novel on the game of Texas Hold 'Em. (Rules here: www.texasholdemonline.com/texas-holdem-rules/). Now, I've been prone to saying in the past that I think you can write using any structure, whether that's a structure found in literature or an actual physical structure, like a gas station (narrator POV stays rooted in time and place; characters come and go and have conflict with each other; time of day/customer rush determines where the climax is). By the way, I just made that one up, so if you decide to write a short story, novella, or even a novel based on this structure, do let me know how it works out. Is this a true narrative structure? Not really. Can I map one-to-one each gas pump in the station, the roof overhead, and the convenience store with each part of the story? I cannot. It's more of a gas station in spirit.
Anyway, I started thinking about Hold 'Em because one of my writer chats was talking about structure and 3-acts/Save the Cat, and someone suggested looking at kishoutenketsu, a Japanese 4-act structure (4-acts are also widespread among the other East Asian countries). And on the fly, I suggested writing a story according to the beats of a Texas Hold 'Em game.
This wasn't completely random: I want to steer non-Asians away from kishoutenketsu. Selfishly, or maybe not so selfishly because I know how easily theft occurs in the West, I want Asian authors to use that structure first. I want them to write stories that follow the beats they know so well. The surprise third-act antagonist, new arrival, or out-of-nowhere situation? Kishoutenketsu. So while thinking about Hold 'Em might have been random, wanting to show off already-extant examples of 4-act dramas in the West was not.
(I also enjoy exploring 2-act structures because I love musical theater and opera, and both are by necessity split in half because of intermission, unless there are two intermissions like in Parsifal or Der Rosenkavalier. The mid-point break and subsequent big change in status quo are among my favorite things. See also: the time skip between Naruto and Naruto Shippuden. Anyway, that's a different blog post.)
I started playing Hold 'Em in university, where one of my best friends would invite everyone to his house for poker nights and we'd all throw in twenty bucks, get ridiculously, wildly drunk, and try to outbluff each other on hands we all knew were utter shit (except that one time there was a four of a kind, and boy was I glad I had folded the second I saw my hand). I love the dramatic tension of a Hold 'Em game even through the haze of Southern Comfort (100 proof) and lukewarm Coke. Who at the table is the biggest bluffer? Who at the table plays cautiously and therefore is less likely to bluff? Who at the table is the agent of chaos? Who's the one trying to count cards? And who's the one addicted to pushing all in because their BAC is too high?
In case you missed the thread, here it is. And here's the Thread Reader App unroll.
The four-act structure of Hold 'Em allows for a lot of flexibility as far as character decision and writer herding skills are involved. As long as you hit each of the acts, things should go fine. There's conflict and drama built in because of that reversal of fortune and the consequences of character actions coming back to bite them in the ass. This structure would work very well for mysteries, thrillers, action-adventure, and heists especially. It's a structure designed to crank up tension nonstop until the very end. Think films like Ocean's 11, Inception, The Italian Job, which are all three-act films, if I remember correctly, but in a novel form can be made into four. In fact, you might need four just so you can get all the characters in. Introducing characters in a movie, with makeup and hair and costume design and set design and all that, is much easier than in a book. All that description!
I'm curious to see how well this structure works, so if you ever write a novel using this structure, please think of little ol' me and tell me about what you did. I'd love to see how well it maps to what you're planning.
PS: Once Bitter Medicine is released, I'll do an act breakdown. It's not a three-act but a two-act, and once I made that realization, the editing process came together.
The title of this is rather apt, seeing as I am sitting in the studio with a severe thunderstorm pouring Nature's wrath upon the Atlanta area. It's a Friday afternoon, which means I've had my advanced improvisation class for the day, and my brain is full of bits and pieces of music from the stuff I prepared as homework. Modulation is one of those things that is both simple and incredibly complicated at the same time, and when you ask someone to modulate into a new key instantly, but tell them they can't look at their hands or the keyboard and they have to play with beauty and nuance and also watch the class at the same time . . .
Anyway, I digress. Today's post has been brewing for a while, and it's on the topic of pantsing, or discovery writing, as some people call it. Writers are loosely broken into two categories, pantsing (writing by the seat of one's pants) or plotting, and writerly opinions litter the landscape between these two ends of the spectrum. It's not a binary, folks! Is anything really a binary?
As a longtime denizen of online writing spaces, I've seen many people extol the virtues of plotting. After all, when we intend to go somewhere, we do map our route. Plotting has plenty of benefits, but it's only one method to get where you're going. Pantsing, discovery writing, or, as I'm going to call it here, improvisation, is sometimes seen as sloppy and unorganized and a deeply flawed way to write a book. I've seen it referred to in a dismissive manner, as if a person can't conjure a good book out of thin air. But that's not true.
Let me back up a bit.
I think that for many non-musicians out there, and quite a few classically trained musicians, improvisation is one of those things that's miraculous. How else but through sheer genius and talent can one sit at the piano, or take up the instrument, and have something cohesive and amazing come out? But that's not how it works for many, many people. Improvisation is something we have to practice. Yeah, I said it, and this is not new to those who are already in jazz. Improv takes practice.
To improvise, you have to understand your boundaries. Let's say you're playing a standard tune with your combo. You've run through the first iteration of the tune, and now it's time for the band to improvise. If you've ever gone to a jazz club, you understand: Every song has structure, and every person who improvises within that song follows that structure. The lead is going to go first; they're gonna get, oh, sixteen bars to improvise. Then the next instrument takes it up. So, for example, the trumpet improvises first, then the sax, then the piano, then the bassist, and finally, the drummer.
Within that improvisation, each instrumentalist has an understanding of the harmonic structure of the tune, as well as all the notes that mesh with the harmonies. Already the instrumentalist has a limited number of notes to pick from. And then the instrumentalist relies on the technical exercises—scales, arpeggios, etc.—as foundations on which to create the improvisation. We go from practiced pattern to practiced pattern, filling in the connective parts. In other words, we have a bunch of Lego blocks at our disposal and we stack them on each other in a certain amount of time, and ta-da! That's our improv. And we hand off the baton.
How does this tie into pantsing? Pantsing is never done by pulling something out of thin air. Pantsers build upon those story elements they already know: character, setting, conflict, plot. Maybe the characters aren't all the way fleshed out. Maybe the setting given is only a single room in a house. Maybe there is no conflict and no plot. But there is always a seed, a starting point that we, as consumers of stories, have within us. And pantsers want to know what happens next, so they start exploring in those directions with the tacit understanding that there will be conflict, there will be plot, and maybe, when they get stuck, they'll take the Jason Mendoza method and throw a Molotov cocktail, thus creating a wholly different problem.
What I'm saying is that pantsers are improvisers who have at their disposal a wealth of information they can use at any time to help construct the story. We've all been exposed to stories, even the ones that continue building on themselves (think about oral storytelling methods, where the storyteller takes suggestions from those around the fire). Think about how TV shows and movies are put into strong three-act structures. Think about the conflict created between people who want each other, but whose overall goal is to be somewhere that doesn't involve that person (high school sweethearts who want to get married, but whose jobs are on the opposite sides of the country). Pantsers have these Lego blocks available and select the ones they feel will be best. It's not as frenzied as it seems, even if it might feel that way when the writing is flowing.
I'm a pantser, actually—I like to through-compose my drafts, to pull in some more musical terminology. Through-composing means (as simply as I can define it) to write new music for each section and structure things in a way that makes it impossible to exchange those sections. But I never start writing without knowing my ending. And that's something a successful pantser will work with: boundaries. My boundaries are the opening image and the closing image, and I fill in everything in between with the understanding that there will be a set piece, there will be rising action, there will be a climax, and so on so forth. What I don't know is how they'll fit together, or if a character will grab the reins and run off and make the story about them.
But part of pantsing for me, too, is sitting on that story egg and incubating it. I'm a slow-cooker writer. I get an idea and I let it percolate for years. I have to know these characters and how they interact and how they're going to make each other miserable or happy. BITTER MEDICINE took over four years to come to fruition. My next project, called Key and Vale for now, has been in development for over three years. This year's NaNoWriMo zero draft project is named Syren and has been baking for several years as well. And next year's Real Draft is RED ENVELOPE HUSBAND, the zero draft of which I wrote during NaNoWriMo 2019.
I often pants these zero drafts . . . and then do not use the material when I write the first draft. This happened with Key and Vale (NaNoWriMo 2018) and the BITTER MEDICINE zero draft (2015-2016?). And I will pants that first draft, too, all because the preparatory work has been done by writing the zero draft. Each successive draft gets tighter because I don't pants my edit process, and there does come a time where you have to stop pantsing and nail down your story elements, but even when I'm in edits, I write with a goal abstract enough ("make the reader feel sorry for this character") to give me enough room to improvise. Because that's just how I function.
So, pantsers, embrace it: you are improvisers, you are miracle workers, you are repositories of information. You are everything you learned and everything you love and your writing process is a wonderful chaos crucible, a cauldron of delight, the product of which you're excited to read.
What comes next?
Welcome to No Wrong Notes, a blog about the weird confluence of classical music and writing craft, and a grab bag of everything else besides. I'm Mia, author of BITTER MEDICINE, a forthcoming contemporary fantasy novel from Tachyon Publications, and I am a musician, writer, editor, sometime photographer, and absolute nerd.
More specifically, this blog will serve as a repository for those craft posts that are too long or too detailed for a Twitter thread and too short for a book on craft (which I will never write! Such conceit!). It'll be a place for me to drop musings on writing and music, and occasionally I will delve fairly deep into music geekery. I have a synthesis-type way of thinking, which means I like to draw connections between disparate subjects—and classical music and writing are less disparate than they seem—and engage in collaborative discovery. It won't just be my solo voice on this blog! I welcome comments. I find my best idea sparks are struck when I have dialogue from others. Out of many, one, and all that. (As it so happens, my undergraduate degree is a combinatorial degree in humanities and arts, so I've been at this a long time).
Why is this introductory post titled "Exposition"? A friend suggested it as a blog title; I thought it was apt for a first post. The exposition, after all, is to introduce. In the first movement of the sonata-allegro form, the exposition is used to introduce themes A and B, introduce rhythmic and melodic motifs, and to set the foundation for our musical journey. Thus do we come to this: a statement of theme.
Above all, I value process over product, and I value the joy inherent in satisfying one's curiosity. So much of what we do and what's expected of us is product on top of product. I'm in the publishing industry, which is relentless in its demand of product although it is supposed to champion process. I want us to slow down, to learn patience, to value failure and struggle, and to be unashamed of making mistakes. There are no mistakes, as Bob Ross said, only happy accidents. Or I could lean on Miles Davis, who said there are no wrong notes, only notes in the wrong places. Or Art Tatum, who said there is no such thing as a wrong note. Or even Jacob Collier, whose theory of harmony disposes with the concept of wrong notes altogether, because everything harmonizes with everything.
All we can do is make choices and keep making choices in hopes that we go somewhere, and do our best to enjoy the trip we take, even if you are in Seoul International at three a.m. with a sick child who has just puked everywhere and you don't speak a word of Korean (I mean, why would you, your final destination isn't Seoul, it's Taipei) and can't get help and there's no one around except other passengers who are giving you the hairiest, most judgmental eyeballs--
No, wait, that's me.
I'll leave you all with some advice from a beloved teacher of mine, whose words never fail to make me cry, whose radical kindness pierces through the worst of my emotions and shines a beam of sunlight on my very hurt and sensitive core:
"You must allow yourself to make mistakes."
And then once you do, maybe you'll find there are no mistakes and no wrong notes, only choices to be made.
Mia is a musician, teacher, writer, editor, and occasional photographer whose formal education is in music, psychology, and pedagogy. She enjoys reading a lot, thinking while on long drives, finding songs for each moment, and snoozing with her cat.