When I was young, I spent many years writing songs. The attraction of a story that's set to music, starts with a hook, gets complicated, rises to a climax, then wraps up with some kind of resolution, and does it all in two or three minutes was very compelling. The songwriting masters (all the names you know) were my inspiration. I was a typical young, rock 'n roller wannabe. I loved the medium of songs.
I spent some time playing with other musicians. We made recordings. We even went into a recording studio and made a record (this was the days of vinyl).
After a trip to Hollywood, where I played my material for music publishers, I realized I didn't have what it takes. Writing is a kind of art where the difficulty gets greater as the form gets shorter. Crafting a 2 minute 30 second song that works and that people might like to listen to over and over is, simply, the hardest writing there is.
So I quit and decided to try my hand at novel writing, another kind of writing that I'd always been in love with, one, which, at 350 pages, gives you a bit more room to ramble.
Despite my switch to novel writing, I've remained aware of songwriting. And the masters of songwriting are the among the tallest mountains in my creative mental landscape. When Stephen Sondheim died a couple of days ago, it was a time to reflect on the power of a song.
Many of us have seen the Sondheim musicals that transformed Broadway. From West Side Story to Company, to Into The Woods, to A Little Night Music, to Sunday In The Park With George.
Most of us - maybe all of us - have some Sondheim songs stuck in our heads. Send In The Clowns, Being Alive, Move On, Jet. Even if we don't think of ourselves as knowing Sondheim lyrics, many of us can sing them:
Isn't it rich?
Are we a pair
Me here at last on the ground
You in mid-air
Send in the clowns
or,
When you're a Jet
you're a Jet all the way
from your first cigarette
to your last dyin' day
The world is a much richer place for Stephen Sondheim's writing.
