The Grass Is Always Greener

As promised, here’s my reply to Maggie’s blog yesterday, my poor pre-prepared blog she so rudely pre-empted(g). Then again it might fit in well, almost as if we'd planned it. No such organization here. That would be, well, dull.

I’m in the midst of writer’s block. When I get that way, I start looking for an escape. E-mail. Blogs. Newspapers.

Then flash. Bang. Two things happened the other morning. I read a column in the paper, and I thought of a game I often play while in the presence of strangers at a luncheon or dinner table (it makes a great icebreaker when no one is interacting).

The game: what would you be if you had your heart’s desire as to occupation? Talent? Profession? It cannot be what you are doing now. No cheating by saying I would rather be writing than anything else. (Secret confession: sometimes I would rather be digging ditches when I’m beset by the dreaded block.)

But back to the game. I’ve always wanted to be a symphony conductor. I love music. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than directing an orchestra and coaxing from it the magnificent sounds that stir the soul.

I must admit now I’m tone deaf. Though I can hear others and know whether or not they are on key, I cannot do the same for myself. I sing like the worst hopeful in American Idol auditions.
In the first grade, there was a music class that branded me forever. The teacher divided students into two groups. One for good singers. One for average voices. I was placed, by myself, in a third category: the never to be heard voices. It was traumatic since I loved music and desperately wanted to be a part of it. Humiliation mixed with despair.

But I’ve always been an optimist. Some day my fairy Godmother would scatter fairy dust about me, and I would be, well, tolerable if not superb. Okay, I couldn’t sing, but maybe, just maybe I could do something else. Right after the singing debacle, I decided to take piano lessons. If I couldn’t sing, well, by golly, I could play. My parents said no, I was too young. So at seven I took myself off to a music teacher in the neighborhood, negotiated terms (a dollar a lesson), took two lessons before telling my parents. My parents, grudgingly impressed with my initiative, decided to make good my illegal contract. We soon discovered my choice was probably the most incompetent piano teacher in Detroit (which explains why she accepted my offer) and found a reasonably talented one. Unfortunately I was not. Talented, I mean. I continued lessons for many a year and became fairly adept at playing a tune with music in front of me, but I bitterly resented my brother who could sit down and play by ear any melody that caught his fancy. The injustice was shattering.

Undaunted and with the fairy Godmother still in mind, I took up the cello in grade school. I wanted to play in the school band and the only instrument available was the cello, which was bigger than I was. Still, at eight, I lugged it home every day and practiced faithfully. Never became very good.

We moved south, probably to the delight and relief of the band teacher, and I landed at a new school. Once again, I sought an instrument to play. Only thing available was cymbals. Okay. I could do that. The band director raised his hand, and I went BANG. Again not very good, but at least I was part of an orchestra, such as it was. Happy, happy, but oh, I envied those who made their instruments sing.

Changed schools again. A French Horn was available. Joy. I grabbed it. Now playing a French horn is difficult for someone with a good ear, but when you’re tone deaf . . .
But I tried with all my music-loving heart. I was fourth French horn in a four-horn section. My one claim to fame was when we went to state contest. One of the judges praised the fourth French horn as the only one in tune. Believe me, it was the first time and totally by accident. But I treasured those words.

Meanwhile, I also loved writing. I was good at writing. I usually got all a’s in English and related classes. I was not tone deaf in words. But I yearned to make music. To me, writing was unexceptional. An ordinary skill. Something that came naturally. Anyone could do that.
But music? That was magical.

Irony of ironies, when I went to the Atlanta Journal from college, I was made music and art editor. That – in effect – also made me the music critic (shows the state of music appreciation by newspapers). Ability was not involved here. It was just that no one else would do it, and I was the cub reporter who couldn’t say no. So tone-deaf me reviewed visiting operas and the Atlanta symphony. I loved it. Not so sure that the music community shared my enthusiasm.

So here I am, longing always for the grass on the other side of the fence and never quite believing in the talent I’d been given. Especially not believing that it was anything special. Music is special. Writing? Ordinary.

I’m always surprised then when someone seems to be in awe of meeting "a real writer." I’m in awe of meeting "a real musician." Then I wonder whether musicians feel the same way about writers? Do those who paint wish they could make music or create canvases of words? Do architects who build wonderful buildings wish to be any of the above? Engineers who design internet sites that bring the world to millions? Teachers who awaken and excite minds? I’m in awe of all of them more than I am of my profession.

Do we all think OUR talents are ordinary and those of others extraordinary? Or do we sometimes yearn to have what we cannot have? Hmmmm.

But try it some day. Next time you’re sitting with a group of people play my game. Afterwards, you usually appreciate your own choices, your own abilities. Maybe writing is special after all. Afterall, now I can be anything I want to be, at least for a while. I can be an outlaw, or an ice skater, or an attorney. I can battle bad guys and save the world, at least a small piece of it. I can travel in a covered wagon, or own a newspaper.

But would I trade it all to have a musician’s ear?

Do musicians get music block?

Now that I’ve indulged my own writer’s block by rambling, I’ll return to that column I mentioned way up high in the third paragraph. It hit me like a sledge hammer.
The columnist was talking about an advanced English high school class he visited in Washington D.C. The guest speaker was E.L. Doctorow, author of "Ragtime.

After being grilled on a number of topics ranging from point of view to finding the right voice, a student asked, "What do you do when you get writer’s block?"

"Hummm," replied Doctorow. "That’s a writer’s question. You can get it when you’re writing the wrong thing. The right thing flows."

Oops!

Back to the drawing board.

Maybe I really would rather be a musician.