Beginner to Composer

Rivulets of rain gather, burst and race down the window of my studio. Outside my neighbour’s cat shoots across the glossy green lawn, desperate to get out of the wet. A week ago, sitting in this same spot, I’d been noodling at the keys when a piano part arrived; landed fully formed and quite complete, like it had always existed - simply elsewhere. In the days that followed I explored it, adding this and changing that, but for the most part kept returning to the way it tumbled out the first time around. I decided to record it, not a perfect take but good enough to play along to on my double bass and drums. Again the parts appeared to write themselves, no force or labouring required. It felt a bit like cheating.

Not every composition goes like this. It’s special when it does, like a gift. All you have to do is show up to receive it. As the music comes through I get the sense that time does not exist. This is something I have heard, but now I feel it; like embodying the past, present and future all at once. It leaves me feeling high the whole week long. Light, like walking on air.

Anyone that tries enough times to create something will eventually get an experience like this. I liken it to falling in love, only with something you can’t see, touch or fully understand. I score the final bars and see the whites out on the line begin to drip. A blouse slides through the pegs and slaps the ground. The encounter is over.