Lately I’ve been especially conscious of my own mortality. At 60 friends start to pass away. No matter the physical shape a person may seem to be in, a heart may just have 43, 54, 64, or 75 years in it. Period. It’s best to use our time as fearlessly as we can to do our creative work and to put it into the world.
Both tasks are hard. Did I say tasks? “Tasks” sound distasteful. It’s really our labor of love. Creating that book you’ve dreamed of for years; painting a series of watercolors; making a film, even if you have to do it with your iPhone. Don’t let anything stop you. If you put your love into it, work hard at it, something good will come of it for you. Yes, it may take years. Maybe you’ll die trying. Better that than having the death bed regret of not having tried at all.
Then, once the project is complete, as complete can be, the next step is to put it into the world where it may be hated, loved, liked, or treated with indifference. Make contact with people, deliver your enthusiasm to them, whether it’s radio DJs, Internet media, or a school newspaper.
The one thing I’d really like to accomplish with my work is to inspire others to do something. Something they’ve wanted to do but haven’t yet tried. I’ve found that I’m very happy when a student or friend imitates something I’ve done on their road to developing their own voice.
There’s no telling what could happen. The worst might be that the finished project languishes on a shelf. I look at my compositions as children, in a sense. Many years ago, I was commissioned to compose for a symphony orchestra—a short piece for children’s concerts. The orchestra paid me for it but rejected it for performance. After I got off of that truly bloody phone call when they gave me the news, I looked at the sketches and finished score and cried. It was like I’d lost a family member, though, of course the sense of loss was not disproportionate to an actual occurrence like that. I did go through a short mourning period. And 30 years later the piece has never been played, though I still regard it in a much more positive light than the orchestra management did.
It doesn’t matter. I learned a lot by writing that piece. I learned a lot by being rejected. For one, I could have been more in communication with the orchestra management as I composed the piece. There was a period toward the end of the deadline when I unplugged the phone so I could just work uninterrupted—of course they were trying to reach me at that point and couldn’t. I imagine the frustration of not reaching me at a critical time led in part to their decision to move on. For another, they believed the piece was too difficult for a one rehearsal gig, though I did my best to make everything clear in the score. But, I should have been in communication, discussed sketches, gotten feedback and moved on. It’s good to be in communication with the musicians for whom you are composing as you are composing.
If writing, it’s good to give your writing to other writers or an editor for feedback; painters could do the same. Communication is an important skill. All this being said, fear of failure is just fear. No reason not to put yourself on the line, make mistakes, and learn. Eventually we have to deal with the “big sleep,” and at that point nothing much matters. Better to make our work matter now.
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