There's a certain "writer voice" you adopt when you start composing fiction -- you know, that dramatic, flow-y narrator voice that no one actually talks in but that we all expect from the pages. As both readers and writers, we're so used to it that we don't realize how silly it would be if someone actually described what was going on around us in such a manner.
There's a scene in the TV show Community in which Abed narrates Pierce's life in real time, using "writer voice," that perfectly captures how wackadoo it sounds in life:
I was thinking about this scene recently because, as some of y'all might know, I practice circus arts as a hobby, and I've also written circus stories / scenes in my fiction. The interesting thing about actually doing something that you later write about is that you realize how different a tone you adopt for the sake of "writer voice," versus what was actually happening in the moment.
Last week, I performed an aerial silks routine at my studio's student showcase. I then promptly went home and wrote down what was going through my head as it was happening. Just for fun, as a case study, I present to you two versions of what happened during the performance: first, how I'd write about it in a novel, and second, a video that shows what actually happened (including captions of the actual thoughts going through my head). Enjoy!
How I'd Write It
As I clung to the two long red fabrics, waiting for the music that would accompany my routine to begin, a rush of excitement and anxiety hit me. This was it: the moment I'd been working toward since I first started taking classes three and a half years ago. I drew a deep breath as the opening drone wafted from the studio's speakers, warning myself not to let my racing heart take over.
I began my ascent up the silks, twisting and reaching as I'd practiced so many times. It seemed to go well at first, but then, as I moved to untwist, the fabric failed to come off as expected. A combination of rosin and perhaps humidity had made them stickier than when I'd practiced on them before. A quick kick freed me, and the entire moment probably lasted less than half a second, but I made a mental note to beware in future moves.
Perhaps because of that slight hiccup, or perhaps because adrenaline was causing my pulse to speed uncontrollably, I hit my first pose sooner than expected. I paused, waiting for the cue in my music, and released one hand to perform the first drop of the routine. I landed in a sideways position with one knee hooked on the fabrics and the other dangling free. Wrapping the fabrics for my next pose, which could best be described as a kneeling shape but sideways, always took longer than I would have liked during practice. But this time, somehow, I hit my pose early -- again.
Slow down, I warned myself. As I unwrapped and maneuvered over the silks for the next part, I swept each arm with deliberate viscosity to match the slow, mournful song, whose pace felt positively lethargic compared to my still-racing heart.
Despite my best efforts, I ended up completing my next wrap ahead of the music again -- a feat I'd never accomplished in practice. Posing upside down, I waiting for the song to catch up and hoped it looked deliberate. Finally, I heard my cue and released, whirling down the fabrics like thread unspooling.
The latter half of my routine would involve a high pose, another drop, and a final spin. Still aware of how much faster I was moving than in practice, I considered adding an extra move or two to my climb, but quickly decided against it when I recalled how sticky the fabrics had been previously. After reaching the top, I twisted and wrapped to set up for my next pose. Too late I realized I was lower than expected, but I had no choice but to continue on. Knowing where my next music cue would hit, I mentally forbade myself from moving ahead until I heard it. What felt like several minutes but in truth was probably about three seconds passed.
My last high pose was one called a "coffin," where I lay across my wrapped fabrics, which I'd effectively twisted into a hammock, and released both hands. The audience applauded enthusiastically. I suppressed a grin. If they liked that pose, they would certainly enjoy what came next...
I dove out of the hammock, falling face-first toward the ground before catching on my wrapped fabrics. The audience cheered as I'd hoped.
Only the spin remained. Oddly, it was the part I most often messed up during practice, probably because it came at the end when I was tired. I managed to move into the tucked position I'd need for the spin without any problems, but being so low meant I had to work harder to generate enough speed.
The effort paid off though - I hit the pace I wanted... and then some. Though I worried that my dizziness would cause me to slide off the fabrics, I managed to hang on through the end of the song.
The final note faded, and applause filled the studio. Relieved and weary, I climbed down and took a bow.
How It Actually Happened
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