I just turned in a story on a gamelan master. A Javanese gamelan master. I guess if I had to list the positives about this job, aside from the way it's helping my fiction, the great hours, and (win) it pays for my schooling-- I'd also say it allows me to learn about things I would otherwise never have learned in a million years.
Anyway, this story reminded me that when it comes to art, we're sort of all cut from the same cloth — music, painting, writing. How many times have you heard or said yourself, "I started writing when I was in elementary school," or "I knew I wanted to write when I was ten," etc.
Well, when this man was 7 he was at a concert in Java (it's a place and a drink people, keep up), and the guy playing the hanging gongs fell asleep. Or maybe he passed out, because according to this guy their concerts go from 8 or 9 at night to 4 in the morning. Yeah. So, the conductor remembers seeing this boy hanging around at their practices, etc. and he just calls him out of the crowd and up on the stage to play the sleeping man's gongs.
And he does! I asked him how he was able to play without any real training, and he smiled (this guy was all laughing and smiles and broken English) and said "I just did what the person next to me did."
So, I'll just write like Stephen King. Deal?