Overtures
Sometimes I am reminded that even in this superficial, plastic backwater called Miami, I don't necessarily have to be alone unless I want to.
Aside from OL budlings, I consider my real friends to be in Philly. Or Jersey. Or in one case, L.A. I loathe actually starting conversations with people, so making RL friends is a chore to me. I hold dear the ones I have because, well, of course they are cool people, but I also don't like putting myself "out" there much. I'm one of those people who always thinks she sounds stupid, no matter what I say, so I try not to speak. And not speaking = no friends-type people. Usually, that works fine for me; I have cello, I have writing . . . I have work. My life is full - not, perhaps, fulfilling, but full.
And then there are times that I get a taste of what I am missing, purely by accident.
Heh. Accident. Somehow, on Thursday, I accidentally broke the bridge of my cello. And then the soundpost fell. So Petya was pretty much unplayable until I could get the soundpost set up again and a new bridge cut. My teacher called a guy she knew who does these sorts of repairs, and he was able to squeeze me in on Thursday if I were willing to wait while he made all the fixes. He said he'd be done in a half-hour, tops.
Four hours later, I'd spend nearly $400 sprucing Petya up and I was grinning like Grimace because I had such a cool time. This guy's a violinist, speaks five languages and is so frigging smart! And his right-hand guy, this uber-hot guy named Jose, is a cellist! And we talked about music! And we played music! And he played music for me. On my cello! And there were violists there and drummers and pianists . . . all of them oohing over Petya and joining in my bitchfest about what a culturally barren wasteland South Florida is. And at the end of it all, I had made loads of contacts and gotten a standing invite from Jose to drop by and play duets sometime. Ah. Bliss.
I used to think that there was nothing worse than seeing an idea you had written by someone else and published by a major publishing house. But now I think I've found something worse: Having someone else write an idea you'd been toying with, get published, and then blather on in an "afterword" about how she had never written anything longer than a letter before and that she sent in her manuscript, and OMG, SIX!1111 publishers were fighting over it. Golly gee!
Please.
But that's not what bothers me. Well, um, OK. It does a little. A lot. I mean, her story? It's about a woman who becomes possessed by the spirit of Franz Liszt and becomes a prodigy pianist overnight, and her life changes and things are fizzy and sparkly and weird. Substitute Brandukov for Liszt and cello for piano, and . . . yeah.
But seriously, what bothers me is that every time I gear up to just start applying to to creative writing programs, someone turns up with a book and movie deal who never so much as took advanced English courses in college. It's like, why bother? If you have some talent, or some gimmick or fit some niche, you'll get published. No MFA program or studying or writer's retreat will help if you don't have the goods, or your goods aren't good enough.
Frig. I feel like Ben right now. If I were of a mind, I'd write some nice, angst-ridden Justin/Ben, because Brian is in recovery right now, but, hm, maybe I'll transfer my feelings of inadequacy to Bashir. Now . . . to come up with a scenario . . .
And happy birthday nightsister We're missing you in SoFla, but you are missing nothing by not being here. Trust me.
Aside from OL budlings, I consider my real friends to be in Philly. Or Jersey. Or in one case, L.A. I loathe actually starting conversations with people, so making RL friends is a chore to me. I hold dear the ones I have because, well, of course they are cool people, but I also don't like putting myself "out" there much. I'm one of those people who always thinks she sounds stupid, no matter what I say, so I try not to speak. And not speaking = no friends-type people. Usually, that works fine for me; I have cello, I have writing . . . I have work. My life is full - not, perhaps, fulfilling, but full.
And then there are times that I get a taste of what I am missing, purely by accident.
Heh. Accident. Somehow, on Thursday, I accidentally broke the bridge of my cello. And then the soundpost fell. So Petya was pretty much unplayable until I could get the soundpost set up again and a new bridge cut. My teacher called a guy she knew who does these sorts of repairs, and he was able to squeeze me in on Thursday if I were willing to wait while he made all the fixes. He said he'd be done in a half-hour, tops.
Four hours later, I'd spend nearly $400 sprucing Petya up and I was grinning like Grimace because I had such a cool time. This guy's a violinist, speaks five languages and is so frigging smart! And his right-hand guy, this uber-hot guy named Jose, is a cellist! And we talked about music! And we played music! And he played music for me. On my cello! And there were violists there and drummers and pianists . . . all of them oohing over Petya and joining in my bitchfest about what a culturally barren wasteland South Florida is. And at the end of it all, I had made loads of contacts and gotten a standing invite from Jose to drop by and play duets sometime. Ah. Bliss.
I used to think that there was nothing worse than seeing an idea you had written by someone else and published by a major publishing house. But now I think I've found something worse: Having someone else write an idea you'd been toying with, get published, and then blather on in an "afterword" about how she had never written anything longer than a letter before and that she sent in her manuscript, and OMG, SIX!1111 publishers were fighting over it. Golly gee!
Please.
But that's not what bothers me. Well, um, OK. It does a little. A lot. I mean, her story? It's about a woman who becomes possessed by the spirit of Franz Liszt and becomes a prodigy pianist overnight, and her life changes and things are fizzy and sparkly and weird. Substitute Brandukov for Liszt and cello for piano, and . . . yeah.
But seriously, what bothers me is that every time I gear up to just start applying to to creative writing programs, someone turns up with a book and movie deal who never so much as took advanced English courses in college. It's like, why bother? If you have some talent, or some gimmick or fit some niche, you'll get published. No MFA program or studying or writer's retreat will help if you don't have the goods, or your goods aren't good enough.
Frig. I feel like Ben right now. If I were of a mind, I'd write some nice, angst-ridden Justin/Ben, because Brian is in recovery right now, but, hm, maybe I'll transfer my feelings of inadequacy to Bashir. Now . . . to come up with a scenario . . .
And happy birthday nightsister We're missing you in SoFla, but you are missing nothing by not being here. Trust me.