Choreography and the Mechanics of Writing
The dance space was my first creative space. I begrudgingly went to ballet lessons and missed Saturday morning cartoons, but the studio space won me over. It inhaled posture and exhaled form. It resonated with me. I understood movement and dance-expression before I knew how to express my thoughts and myself with words on the page. It was always easy to find the beat and listen to the layers of sound and rhythms that inspired my body to move. Once I started moving, the ideas, the expression- my form- would shine, would ignite, would flow.
Choreography became my creative outlet, an extension of myself. It’s no surprise that I feel sharper in my writing when I lean into the dance space. The mechanics of dancing are deeply woven into my writing process, and there are a lot of places between the two crafts that translate. Being a choreographer isn’t just about teaching a sequence of steps to music. Choreography is a conversation between the dance and the music, telling a story- telling your story.
Transitions
Transitions are often overlooked and can really derail the plot or mislead readers if they aren’t seamless and cohesive. Much like how I write, I teach dance sequences section by section, to focus on one piece at a time before stringing them together. Pauses between the last sequence into the next movement of a dance routine can be awkwardly choppy if we don’t work on transition. When I connect dance sequences, I can see what fits from one movement to the next, what’s lacking, what might be better in another place in the bigger picture of the piece.
There is a dance sequence called the chain link that I teach when I am teaching the cotillion waltz forms. It’s a cross waltz step between two groups of people in two circles, moving in opposite directions. Every time you waltz-step forward, you grab the hand in front of you and switch places with that person. Everyone is doing the exact same step, and while there’s one specific way that the choreography calls for, there are a dozen other ways that don’t work when we’re learning it. To teach this move, everyone has to work together. Sometimes we have to count out loud and take inventory of every moving piece. One person out off step pushes everyone off balance and off count. When we don’t count out loud, we’re not on the same page, and there are a lot of tangles, tripping and falling out of sync. This is the image I see whenever I’m working out transitions in my written work. How does the content or story flow into this next section? Does it belong here? Is it cohesive? Is it too soon to reveal this information about this character? Does this sequence belong here or should I have mentioned it sooner/later? What’s missing? It is a process that requires patience and focus before the chain link looks like two graceful circles weaving in and out of each other at every turn.
Timing
With dance, timing can mean hitting the right mark for emphasis, landing a spin on the right count, knowing when to pause or prep, and knowing when the pace of the music changes and being in sync with it. In dance, timing is technique. In writing, it’s no different. Jokes are a great example of timing and being able to set up the punchline. Timing is plot’s best friend. In dance, we can always rely on counting in on 5-6-7-8, so the timing is consistent and on point. I keep timing in mind when I need to work on unfolding a story and connecting pieces together. Is it too early to reveal this secret? Is the movement too slow? Am I sharing too much too quickly? When does the reader need to know who this character really is? When do these specific characters meet? Timing can mean the difference between moving with and strengthening the plot’s buildup or falling short if timed poorly. I go back to the chain link visual and look for places in my work where someone is stepping off beat or pausing when they should be moving. While there is no one (but myself) to yell, “5-6-7-8!” while I’m writing, I check the places that feel rushed or are really lagging, or feel out of place- maybe I shared something too soon that would serve the plot more strongly later in the story. I map out the pace of the story and line it up with the plot. I work those rough edges out until the chain link is dancing.
Lastly, a posture check!
This is for you, dear writer, whose inner editor is looming over your shoulder and backseat-driving your creative process. Please invite your inner editor to be on the back porch in a hammock, sipping a mint julep or bird watching, or getting sent far away on an errand. If that doesn’t work, stand taller and check your posture. When my rib cage is lifted, when my shoulders are pressed down, when my chin is lifted and I’m smiling, this posture signals my brain that it’s time to dance. When I’m standing tall, I can’t see my inner editor- they’re off duty and I’ll call them back in when it’s time to revise. This posture reminds me that it’s just me and the dance space- or, just me and the page. The choreographer needs space to move, to wander down random scenic roads, to scribble colorful quality pens on countless amounts of blank sheets of paper and sticky notes to communicate. The choreographer makes a beautiful mess before sequences are strung together and transitions and timing are smoothed out. If you can keep transitions, timing, and good posture in check, your words will be dancing on the page.
