 Thank you. And it's always such a privilege to be here. So I'm apologizing in advance for any nose blowing, coughing, coughing bits. If I were really bad, why else would I bow? I may have, like, be sipping a lot of water that's back there. So I'm going to read the first chapter from a novel that I'm working on. And it's called The Music Book. And the first chapter is preceded by a prologue. And in the prologue, a woman who's the main character, her name is Ann Reynolds at that point in her life, who's in her 80s, has recently been living in a, or been moved to an assisted living, perhaps a nursing home, actually. And she's had a few small strokes. And in the prologue, she receives a letter in the mail with a music book. And the piece of music is a sonata. And it was written by a composer whose name is Arthur Cohen. And Arthur Cohen has died a few years earlier. And so this was left in his estate to her. And a composer was a modern composer who was fairly well known for a small period of time. And like a lot of modern composers, his work stopped being performed. So it was thought that, you know, assumed that he wasn't producing a lot of compositions. But after he died, they found music, some of it finished and some of it unfinished, in his house. And in his will, he specifically left this sonata, which is thought to be perhaps one of the greatest pieces of music that he produced by a music critic who's seen it, or a musician who's seen it. He left this for Ann Reynolds. And so she receives, has received it in the mail. And this begins immediately a vivid recollection of a period in a four day, four or five day period of a chamber music festival that took place in the 1950s when she's a cellist. And when she was playing in this chamber music festival with Arthur, it was where she met him, with Arthur Cohen. And so the first, I would say, close to two thirds of the book mainly takes place during this festival. So this is chapter one, Rhode Island, 1953. The cello hit against her side as she came down the steps of the platform and through the crowded station. Outside, cars were bumper to bumper and the sun and sunlight threaded everything. Businessmen in their suits and hats, a woman dragging a suitcase and a child, one in each hand and the bright concrete sidewalk. Wind shields flashed in the sun. She held a hand above her eyes, squinting. Behind a large old station wagon with wooden panels she spotted the de Soto they told her to look for and Charles Grillo sprung from the driver's seat. Anne, right? Anne Seisel? He asked before she could introduce herself. She was 23 and strong looking, large bone with wide shoulders and a square determined jaw. She had soft gray eyes and long brown hair worn back from her face. When she played the cello it fell forward, parting now and then like a curtain to reveal her expression, a driven but dreamy assuredness as if she watched Phantom Shadows. She'd been hired to perform at the Chamber Music Festival last minute because the cellist with the modern strings quartet in New York had broken his arm. Patrick Dipsy, the quartet's violist had phoned her. They'd had difficult finding anyone and he'd gotten her name from the conservatory. They were playing the final event in a five day festival that showcased classical music from the baroque to the moderns and will perform a piece by Stravinsky and a debut and new composition by Arthur Cohen, the quartet's violinist. Had she performed modern classical music? Had she played much Stravinsky? Of course she'd answered, though her study of the moderns had been sparse. She should listen to the recording made last year of one of Arthur Cohen's pieces. Could she be there Monday afternoon? They'd put the rehearsals in during the festival. He'd mailer the music and Charles Breedlove, the quartet's second violinist could pick her up at the station in Providence. I'll take the train down Monday morning, she told me. That same week, the director of a music academy in Boston had found to offer her a position teaching cello lessons to her students. But if you were good enough and at the conservatory they called her gifted, even exceptional, you performed, you didn't teach. Mildred Ridley had managed a career performing in cello and so had Phyllis Crowder. Erica Morini, the only female solo violinist in recent years, and there were no solo violinists or cellists, claimed the problem with women performers was they lacked the single-minded devotion necessary to sacrifice everything to their instruments. Boston, where her family lived, was tight as a loose. Refusing to stay there was one of the reasons she'd given when she turned down her vengeance proposal in that horrible restaurant where the tables were so close together of everyone was listening. She'd never performed if she stayed in Boston, except with church groups and civic orchestras in that group at the conservatory. Charles drove through the crowded streets, cars glistened in the sunlight and horns blared. The smell of exhaust streamed through the open windows and when they drove through the far side of town she smelled the stink of the fishhands. They quickly reached the city's outskirts. Sidewalks and streets peeled away. A small trap of recently built houses disappeared and they passed billboards too fast to read them. The road wound closer to the ocean where tall grasses grew by the roadside and the water appeared in patches. Another road that went along the coast. Don't you, Charles called out? A damp wind blew through the cars. They turned onto a two-lane road close to the water. When they crossed the bridge that spanned the inlet Anne's hair stringed out the window. A buffer, the sky felt huge. Charles drove casually ignoring speed limits and not slowing even when they drove across a narrow bridge with open grating high above the water in the inlet. One hand stayed on the steering wheel and the other waved about. Have you heard Arthur Cohen's recent recording? He and Patrick met at Yale Conservatory which is how they founded the modern strings. The two of them together again in New York City. We've been asked to play at the Shelton Salon next month with this same program. You do know the program, don't you? Patrick said he sent you the music. John Spencer, who said you studied with and claims you're very talented. In fact, he says you're unprecedented. As Patrick probably told you, Les Carmichael, our cellist broke his arm just a week ago, water skiing. No doubt he had a girl on each side. They passed marshes and fields thick with brush and the bright air, everything green. Beachfront hotels, the white houses with dark green trim, the ocean behind them. The sun was a glowy white ball. Charles said how appropriate it was that the one group with a female musician would be the modern strings and she laughed and said she could cut her hair and wear trousers. In the distance, she made out a line of events, each opening toward the next and a vast spread of opportunity. They had a ferry ride to the island. Charles brought them hot dogs and Anne stood on the deck and watched the narrow islands coast spread into view. Cliffs fell in a steep descent to the water and a string of wealthy homes and mansions dangled along the cliff's edge. I can't remember if I said this takes place in Newport where a lot of chamber musicians actually happened during that time period. She'd never seen anything like it on the coast near Boston. Charles pointed out the one he thought was the largest mansion, which was the one that Jameson's had rented for the use of the festival's performances. I love this, don't you? He said pretending for a few days that we're rich. When they reached the island, they retrieved the car and drove away quickly from a small town toward the island's point. She saw walls of white and blue hydrangeas filled with dalphiniums, boats in the harbor, and an ocean laced with waves. White stones shimmered in the heat through a screen of greenery. They passed tall hedges that hid vast grounds and narrowed rives leading to more homes along the coast. That's where the performances will be held behind that black iron bait, Charles told her, pointing. A half mile or so farther up the coast, the Jameson's driveway cut a circle through a black swills and a large rambling three-story tutor rose up out of the sand. They put us all up in the main house, except for Arthur, who's staying in one of those cottages. Don't you think we're doing work on a co-ser like him? Eclipse, eclipse, eclipse. Did you say you'd heard that recording of his? You must if you have it. He's taken every piece of music written and synthesized them into his own style. Perform Arthur Cohen now and you'll end up in Carnegie Hall. That's what it feels like. That's what I predict. Men milled about in cars and taxis, unloading suitcases and instruments. Charles walked her to the doorway. Oh, look, that's Thomas Baxter and Louis Heath. They're performing Haydn and Bach tomorrow evening. They walked down to the front portico, lined with potted ferns and stepped inside the entry where a chandelier the size of a dining room table hung two stories above them. Her room, Charles told her, was upstairs, the fourth door down the hallway on the right. He set her tweaked suitcase and shelled her by the stairs. They can sleep up to 35 people here and I think we're probably close to it with all the performing musicians and maybe a wife or two along with a few guests. She followed him down a central hallway past a parlor and dining room. Patrick and Arthur by the water. Come, I'll show you, I'll introduce you. A comfortable looking living room in the back of the house, opened the outside with a pair of glass doors that led to a stove patio. White page ranges lined the lawn and near the patio yellow roses bloom. Beyond them she saw the ocean, light glinting off the waves. Three men stood at the edge of the lawn overlooking the sea. The two on the right are Harmon Rothschild and George Shields. Charles said, waiting. Didn't Harmon Rothschild perform as a soloist with Philadelphia Symphony this past winter? Yes, I believe he did. The man on the left next to the woman is Patrick Dempsey. Who is the woman? That's Adele Jamison, our patron and great lover of classical music. Patrick and Arthur met her a fundraiser last year. As Patrick went toward the woman, his head obscured hers. Beyond them the clip saw it fell off sharply and below that was a rocky beach. Close to the shore the water was pale blue with foam. The sunlight blinded where it touched the ocean. But when Anne squinted, she could see far out where the blue sky darkened. Arthur is the one in the ocean, do you see him? She held her hand above her eyes. Other musicians were walking out onto the lawn. She felt pulled towards something she couldn't see, something important. That's his dark head above the waves, Charles said. Earlier this summer we performed at an event on Long Island Sound. A group of us stayed up late drinking the night before. Arthur stayed up the latest and then he was up before the rest, swimming laps. I watched him going back and forth along a shoreline and thought, how does he do it? Then of course his performance was the most remarked upon. I think he also wrote the beginnings of a new composition while I was there. Do you swim? No, she answered. I forget you in the water at some point. He has a way of convincing one of us. In the distance, the dark head skimmed above the waves. It looked like the swimmer was approaching the shore, but just before he reached it, he turned and swam back out into deeper water. Later that evening, after a dinner welcoming the musicians, Arthur told her a story. She didn't find him immediately attractive, not with his straight dark hair or a little too long in his narrow face. A group of them had gathered outside on the lawn and the sun was about to prop it into the water, all that fiery light being extinguished. Arthur stood next to her, smoking. It's absolutely a true story, he insisted. I heard it from a fisherman near the island's point when I went for a walk. The whale washed up onto the shore and the fisherman happened upon it at the still living when he found it. How large was it, she asked. He said it was a pile of weight. They're a smaller variety, but I imagine it was big enough. Did it survive? Was the fisherman able to save it? Arthur shook his head. He got help and they tried to pull it into the ocean, but the whale was so heavy and the waves kept bringing it back. The body is still there around the tip of the point. Every now and then while we were talking, I got a lift of it. They migrated at the end of the summer and sometimes one of them comes too close to the island. That's likely what happened. Close to the shore, a group of herons rose with a great flapping of wings. I've got a revised copy of my sonata for you. Have you played this for Binsky before? She nodded where she had. My music goes in a different direction from his. We constantly have to reconsider the meaning of the lotus. I guess that's the work of a composer, she told him. She wondered if he'd invented the story about the whale. It's the work of any musician. Did she wear heels? Perhaps she had on pumps. She wouldn't have worn loafers. There was that white blouse with the tiny white, tiny white buttons up the back and the princess collar. In those days, she performed in skirts amid all those jokes about female cellists opening their legs to play their instruments. Oh, sister, oh, Amy, play me like that. The sounds we could make. She saw the four days vivid before her. Music poured out of the bedrooms and downstairs parlor and living room in Jane's house at all hours. She heard snatches of Bach and Schumann and Tchaikovsky blending together. She had never heard so much music at once, including at the conservatory where practice rooms were soundproof. The next morning when she woke, Charles stood on a lawn playing Beethoven's Ode to Joy on his violin, facing the ocean. His suit jacket strained against his shoulders and hung sloppily. And the violin looked like a toy held up against his large shoulder. But he drew the bow back and forth with such grace. The sun had just come up and the light was still pale and the music made her weak. She became someone else's listening. Instead of going down for breakfast, she practiced Arthur Cohen's sonata over and over again. She was being steered towards it, steered towards something, not a future in Boston, living in a house with a husband who'd spend his life doing medical research. This other future swept down and lifted her. Later that morning, the ocean turned blue gray and the sky was bright, warmed with a few white clouds above the rocky cliff. The Jameson's house was a speck on the shoreline that ran for miles along the Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island coasts. From a room with a bat came the sound of a cello. Anne Seisel drew her bow over the a-string, playing it over and over with slight turns of the peg. When the others came in, they set up music stands and their instruments near the piano and the paintings of Hudson River. Arthur played first violin, Patrick Villola, and Charles was second violin. She was used to rehearsals at the conservatory where they broke down the irregular passages and talked about the accents before playing leaves of peace through. But here they started at the beginning and played to the end without direction. A long pause followed the final notes. Then Arthur said, that whole middle section was rushed and the end was sloppy. They turned back to the beginning. And this time they stopped repeatedly and the music felt much harder. She couldn't find the downbeat. She dragged behind and her notes sounded off. Patrick claimed the problem was intonation and they spent 30 minutes or more tuning chords. Finally, they played the entire piece through again and it sounded better but not much different from when they played it first. We've got more to learn on that, Patrick said, when they were putting away their instruments. It was somewhat better when we played it in the city and we need time to catch up. There's an hour or so before dinner, Arthur said. Many told Anne that they would show her how to reach the water. They left the house together but soon the three men had rushed ahead of her across the lawn and down toward the ocean. In front of the Januson's house, several large flat stones descended to a mirror of a sand beach. Wooden steps led from the lawn of the stones. Climbing over the rocks, the men reached the beach in no time. They took off their shoes and rolled up their pants, pushing one another and joking about the waves which could knock you against the rocks if you were a strong enough swimmer. Cheap all of them down to the flat rocks but then climbed back up intending to walk along this edge. The ocean stretched away from the island. She focused on the scene where the water met the sky. One rehearsal would not determine anything. The performance was what mattered. As she rounded the first bend in the narrow path between the rock face and the edge of the cliff, she heard footsteps behind her. Brother Collins found her pursuits with his jacket and tie on them. I liked your playing, Michelle, because it was windy and the ocean was loud. Your staccato was quick and crisp and the staccato was full of feeling despite the tempo problems. We're perfectionists. Not every musician has the stamina for that. She picked up her pace. He was trying to make her feel that the words she quit may need to find a substitute, a substitute with no notice. You don't have to compliment me. I'm not so fragile. I can't handle criticism. The rest of us have had the music longer. We used to playing with each other. Below them, narrow sandy beaches spilled out between the rocks close to the shoreline. Years later, Benjamin would show her the geodes that hid inside some of those rocks. On the outside, they looked indistinguishable, but if you cracked one open, you'd find a city made of crystal. Arthur walked a few paces behind her. She moved as quickly as she could, concentrating on the narrow trail. I wagered you played Lil Stravinsky and very little the moderns, he said. Patrick claimed you had, but I remember the conservatory's program of concerts a few years ago. Beethoven, Schumann, A Little Berlio, Debussy, and then Beethoven again. I studied Dvorak and Bartholk, and of course Charles I, she told him. Not an extensive repertory comment, but she achieved the timing in that difficult passage after just a few repetitions. Stravinsky reinvented timing. He altered our perception of it. By the end, you were keeping up with those shifts. He was falling behind her, shouting to be heard. She had to stop for a second to wait for him. Who were you studying with in Boston? She named a coach she studied under. Even while you were working hard on that difficult passage, you stayed true to the notes. You didn't try to show off your technique at least, but technique is everything, she said, thinking that it was technique that allowed her to master the difficult timing. The music itself is everything, he countered. The notes on the page are a lot of matter, but it's not music, of course, until it's played. It is music, he argued. The score is the only real music. She slipped off her shoes, which were full of sand. The ground was hot, but she hardly felt it. This section of the past stayed close to the cliff's edge, and down below them, the ocean glittered as if the sun can touch every single crested grave. Music is meant to serve itself, Arthur continued. When we play a piece, we have to surrender to it, and she disappeared. I can't stand musicians who talk about interpretations. It's presumptuous to think that we have the right to interpret a composition. Our duty is to bring the music to life, and it's a sacred duty, a responsibility. That means sensing what the composing meant, what the music itself means, not imposing your own meaning on it. That's true for any music, but especially true for music like Stravinsky's. People think that abstract music gives them more license or interpretation, but it gives them less. That's what makes it so difficult to perform. They had to walk single five. She stayed ahead of them. She was all nerves, and everything he was saying made it worse. She'd been so anxious to accept the job. She kept considering how difficult it was for her to learn music. You're quibbling with semantics, she shouted. If we feel the music, we go through the process of not just playing the notes, but becoming the notes, as you say, disappearing into them. Then we make it new every time we play it. That's true interpretation, and it has everything to do with concentrating on or connecting with one's own sense of meaning and one's own sound. When we play with a larger group, the music is interpreted in a new way by the conductor. That's what keeps it alive. What brings a symphony, written in 1700s, into the present? Pat Huyton and Arthur came abreast of her shaking his head. His longish hair swung back and forth, leaned under the sun. That is exactly when I began. Connecting with one's own sense of meaning is simply ego. I don't care if the person is doing the interpreting as a conductor or a musician. The idea is that one's individual ego can be greater than the music is pure and dangerous presumption. That's what destroys good music. Listen to Chicago Orchestra's recent recording of Stravinsky's Suite number one, and you'll hear one meaning. But if you're a musician, you find the meaning of the music, that essence or whatever you want to call it that's beyond you or anything you could ever mean on your own by going inside yourself. Connecting with it, that experience leads you out of the ego, not further into it. I don't know about the recording you've referred to, but I know what I experience when I play. You can't tell me that what I experience is ego. It's not. I'm not trying to tell you what you experience, if you love his hands. The path curved close to the edge of the cliff, rocks and scrubbed brush fell away on one side and on the other side spread verdant lawns and fluttering bushes. You can't know what happens inside a musician. You can hear the music that's produced, but you can't see inside the musician and know what he or she is experiencing. That's not what I'm saying. You seem to be. Look, I'm just saying that the music is bigger than we are. He stopped talking, but she kept, he stopped walking, but she kept going so that he was forced to shout louder and louder. She pictured him screaming at the ocean, ridiculousness of that. He was claiming that ego is what kept musicians from playing well, yet he seems subsumed by his own grandeur. Earlier when she looked at the sonata and tried to play the cello's notes, she found them difficult. Now it occurred to her that perhaps his piece failed to be musical. She wondered how much knowledge he had of the cello. Any piece of music has its own life, Arthur shouted. Our work is to experience that life. Performance isn't about making an audience happy or making them understand or appreciate anything. It isn't about the audience or about the musician. It's about the music itself. The medium is everything. The sky had darkened, but the air was still bright, shimmering with heat. She could see far out to the ocean, all the way to the thick line of the horizon. They descended closer to the water and reached a break in the path where it was possible to scramble down on the rocks. She held her shoes in one hand and didn't stop until she reached the bottom, where she threw herself down on a narrow strip of sand and shelves next to the water. Moments later, breathing heavily, Arthur lowered himself beside her. His hair whipped in front of his face with the wind. If she weren't so tired, she would stand up and begin walking back at the fastest possible pace. What are you planning to do now that you've graduated? Patrick sent you an offer to the teaching position at the Music Academy in Boston. Yes, she answered. He glared at her with sudden intensity. They were only a few inches away from each other, and she could see every line in his face, the way his cheekbones were too prominent, his forehead too high. You could even consider merely teaching in a music academy. You shouldn't be performing. For a long second, she stared back at him. She had a terrible verge to spit at him. What do you know about it? You have to want to play music badly enough that you can't think about doing anything else. That's the one thing I know. For a moment, they continued to stare at each other. Then she reached up and grabbed two fistfuls of his hair. It was silky, sliding between her fingers, the type of hair that would untangle easily and took a brush to it. She yanked hard enough that she expected some of it to come out of my hands. But instead, his face moved into hers. Everything about it looked distorted, the shell of his nose, the indentations where his eyes rested. He tried to loosen her hands, but she didn't let go. And what happened next happened quickly before she had a chance to think about it. The small stones and the sand ground into her. She pulled at her skirt, bundling with a stick, but she didn't let go of his mouth. It was as if her teeth were locked around him. For a second, she worried someone in one of the houses above might see them, and then he moved his hips into hers. And she felt a sudden, sharp pain. Some people are greater than the music, she told him. Some people are meant to be, it's a medium. He slid under her grasp and everything rippled, turned, and thickened. Has Benjamin ever taken advantage, her mother had asked? And she seemed doubtful when Hannah said no. But Benjamin hadn't. They kissed, and he slid his hands under her clothes, always stopping there as if it were an end point. This was not like that. Not tentative, or based on the assumptions, spending long moments with one's mouth open to another's would be endlessly enjoyable. It was more like wrestling on the lawn with her brothers, pushing and shoving. She had liked that endless kissing, but now it seemed pointless. Here, she was someone different. Next to them, the ocean crashed against the rocks. She saw the dark outline of Arthur's head and saw his shirt white against the bright air. Her skirt bulged around her waist, and when he lifted himself, she turned on her side and sat up, pulling it down. There was blood on her slip, and it seeped through the sand, where it spread into a circle the size of a sand dollar. That was your first time, he said, watching as she raised the slip over her head. You should have said something. She walked down to the water and rinsed her underwear and slip, rubbing them with the cold, slow water, then shaking them dry in the hot air. She splashed water between her legs under her skirt. The sun had dropped close to the ocean, and a second sun, a mirror image, bled into the water under it. She fixed her sight closer in on the breaking waves. Arthur came up behind her. Are you all right? He touched her on the shoulder. The dinner they were required to attend would start soon, and they needed to walk all the way back past the Jamesons and to the breakers. There was no way they could get there in time. We needed to hurry and walk back, she told them, turning away from the water and beginning to climb up the rocks to the path. Just before reaching the top, she stopped and slid her underwear up under her skirt, unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled the damp slip over her head. I'm not dressed properly, she said, as she refastered the buttons of her blouse. They're completely presentable, he told her. Beautifully presentable performer. Less than 30 minutes ago, you were telling me there was no reason for me to play music. She stepped away and they began to walk back, linking hands for a minute before the path narrowed. After a few minutes, she felt her fingers loosening. I was telling you there was every reason to play music. He said, just before they quicker in their pace, trying to get there before the dead-on was over. Thank you. Thank you. The first bugger has to be there. Mrs. Smith, if you can, it's your turn. I played piano for a number of years. I don't play much anymore. I have a sister who's a pianist, a classical pianist in Boston, who plays with a number of music groups, playing a couple of big opera groups, and the Foster Music Project, so which plays a lot of modern music, obviously. So I've been around classical music most of my life because of that. So there's more, I think, that connection than that. And I've never played the cello. I couldn't decide on the instrument. You know, I had a visit to Viola for a while. The cello was such a much more physical instrument. And then I had decided on the cello and was doing some research on the turnip. One of my ex-students is a really, is a wonderful cellist. So anyway, everything that she said about playing the cello, kind of confirmed the choice of that instrument. Yeah, yeah. Have you ever had a relationship with a musician? Not in the old days. Was there such a strong Stravinsky influence? Was there a strong Stravinsky influence? Well, you mentioned Stravinsky a bunch of times. Right, well, because that's the piece that they're going to be playing. So they're getting ready for this festival and they're going to be playing the last concert and they're going to play at least by Stravinsky. And no, I mean, I love Stravinsky, I have to say. but I don't know all of his music exceptionally well. He's a modern composer, I needed a modern composer. So I did do some research, you know, I have some knowledge, and I don't know, I talk to my sister a lot. I'm asking her every question that comes up, but I did take a class last summer, John Montanari, the voice of classical music, if any of you hear him, I don't know if he's down in Connecticut too, but he retired about a year or two ago. He was the voice of classical music for a number of years in PR. And anyway, he lives in my area, so he gave a kind of community course that you could sign up and take. And so he played, it was the orchestra and all of the orchestra instruments kind of through the ages, starting with Bach and hiding all the way up. And we spent some time in Stravinsky and I talked down a little bit about it. That's how I decided on the Stravinsky piece. I'm still picking the piece, but I just wanted to know about him as a composer. Yes? But you, well, it's sort of a two-part question, I guess, but I really appreciate the way you got the piece because you changed the elevation of your voice when dialogue came in and stuff because I found myself very lost in your imagery. I mean, as they're dragging around the cliffs and sort of, they're noticing everything from the car and all of that, but I, you know, there's so much also beautiful repetition and the way these kind of stuff has seemed against each other that you're constantly recalling things that have been written previously. So I guess my question is, have you read this before? Because it seemed as though you were sort of speaking to us as the listeners to bring us back into the moment because I found myself wanting to stay in that image as you were already created. And they were actually reading the book, I thought it was about back in, you know, a little longer, so. Thank you. Well, no, I didn't have that key for it. And I have to say, usually I would like practice reading something new, but because my voice hasn't been, I don't have that great much of my voice that I had didn't do that, so I didn't practice it. I was a little worried about that dialogue because dialogue can be tricky. That's another thing I want to say, I'm sorry, but I love how you just opposed that sort of very concentrated talk about the practice of playing and their argument that was very kind of craft focused in the world of music with the running along the clips because it allowed, you know, that those two options made against each other a nice thing and possibly they're calling workshop as you're kind of reading because there's so much that you are doing and you're writing that you're inviting us students and it was really impressive how evident that was. I'm glad I've taken mine. I feel like I've done it. That's nice to hear. Reassuring. So the ocean plays a huge part in this, I think, just the bad descriptions that you're using. It seems like they mirror in some instances the action that's going on. Was there a large thought process of our revision and including that or taking out in the morning kind of what that was like a little bit? I do it with imagery a lot and so in terms of revising, I am often adding more images in or if I like an image, sometimes it will become more of an image thread. In terms of the ocean and the ocean imagery, water is really important for me. It's just sort of an archetype that I use a lot or it feels like something for me. It feels like a weigh-in emotionally to a piece. So having it by the ocean, I think, is good in that way. Although there are later scenes, several of them occurring in New York City, so there's some that don't. But certainly the ocean is something that's, I love that it's really close to the ocean and that the music in some ways, I don't know, something about the ocean is a rhythm and the music is always rhythmism. So I like the parallels of that, I guess. So being a short story about music, do you try to match or mirror the pacing of the story to a particular musical piece? No, but I am going to play around with that some. I haven't yet, but for example, it's naturally falling into three sections, so I'm going to have three movements and for chapter, what I'd like to do, but I've talked to my sister about this to see if it's really conceivable, what I'd like to do is have the chapter headings be taken from the music. If I can get that to work in a way that's reliable, I can do all the way through, I can just obviously do it in a few. So I wouldn't like to do some of that. I haven't thought of other ways to do it, those are the two minimums I've thought of. As you were writing, were you listening to any music soundtrack? No. You were with that music? I don't really like that, I tried that because I was writing about music, I thought I should try it, I tried it several times. I don't know, for some reason, I just have to have it quiet, I don't know what I just do. But I was listening to music during that while I was working on it. And it was good in a way to take that class because then it gave us all these ring stars, these different music, and turned me on to love music I haven't heard before on stuff. I listen to music a lot anyway. And I think that music is very emotional. In some ways it's a reminder, I think that it serves similar poetry in that way, that it's immediately emotional. And it's wordless, right? So that it's immediately emotional on a level that's beyond, in a place that's beyond words. What are we trying to do when we're writing, right? Let's say what can't be expressed in words, with words. Musicians cut right to it. And so music is great that way. Yes. I knew that they would, I knew that was going to be the story eventually, it was going right away. I was very caught up in the dialogue and it was just like, oh all of a sudden I knew she was going to spit at him, maybe he didn't do it. And then it was... So I was surprised. That was a surprise. How to do that to myself? How to do a surprise? How to surprise yourself? No. I don't know how to do it. That would be a good trick, wouldn't it? If I could teach that, I'll have to think about it. I mean, there are ways in which you can trick yourself some. I think. Because I do sort of sometimes try to do that when I'm working. Well, the one that I talked about today, when I mentioned that today and everyone's so shocked. So when I revise, I often will have a folder after something but then I'm ready to do a big revision. So I don't... I typically will not look at the original. Because if I look at the original, what am I doing? I'm fixing the original. I want to receive a whole thing. So I won't look at the original. So I think that the other thing that that does if you're not tied to your original is that I think that everyone was saying, oh it's so scary and it is kind of scary. It's a little like jumping off a cliff. So there's this moment where you're really scared and then it's really thrilling, right? So that if you can do things like that in terms of your process, then I think that it is more likely that you will surprise yourself. You know? I'm going to think of other ways. Now I'm going to be on the lookout. I'm going to come up with a list of ways. No, I don't know. There's probably none of this. You have to destroy the whole thing just to help you surprise, right? If there was any kind of list, yeah. So just to clarify what you said, so you write something and you put it away and you write it from scratch. Yeah. That's hardcore. I've heard how it's doing that, but the commitment of doing that was a long process. I don't always do it, but I do it a lot. I do it a lot. I did it recently with this book. Yeah. I often do this after I write the first hundred pages over and over again just to get the voice and the way I finally got the voice for this one I'd written it over a bunch of times and looking at it, you know, it just wasn't working and I thought, no, it's gone and I am now looking at this ever again. And then I re-wrote it Do you hand post? Yeah, usually. Anybody else have any other questions? Were you surprised by our reactions at all? Like, were we parts that were supposed to be funny? Were we laughing? I didn't think any of it was funny. So it's good. Karen, you didn't think that those two fighting at the top of their voice was like, walking out of here. I was just caught up in it. You know, I was just... I was just caught up in it. Like, even if I was conscious that that would be a good way to have them that would be funnier if they were... Like, did you think, oh my gosh, Sean, I'm going to talk about all this. These two musicians arguing about tempi, or I don't even really know what they were arguing about. I don't even know what they were arguing about. It seems like they said what you've been teaching us that you would say, give this some action so that they're not just arguing, standing still. But was that a conscious choice? How cool is that? Think about it too much. Don't look at your originals. How could I not have been thinking about that? I don't know. Consciously trying to do that. So that, yes, I think it's important to learn all those things. To learn, like, you know, yeah, if you're having a conversation and it's paired, then you kind of stop sometimes and enjoy the action or whatever. And that there's a rhythm. I think one of the things we talked about is that there's a rhythm that can develop from the back and forth. There's a story too in our workshop and there was a rhythm between a dream and reality, a dream and reality. And that when you have that rhythm going back and forth, that's sort of visceral. The reader can feel that. It's almost like physical. And so that is hopefully what I had in that scene. But then I think what happens is that you have to learn all of that. You know? And I certainly know that and I see it in other work all the time and I think it's so important to read a lot and notice what's going on and what's working well. But when, and this is just me personally, when I'm on the page myself and I'm working I'm in the world of the story and of the language and of the character. And so I'm not thinking consciously of trying to do that. So I'm not making the effort towards creating that rhythm. It's just that hopefully I've noticed it enough in other kinds of places that I'm just, it's in my mind and it's just a part of me and I'm doing it. And I think that the revision process is different. There are certain points in the revision process where, you know, you do try to do that. Try to change a scene and make it work better more by consciously doing something. But a lot of times when I'm writing I'm not consciously trying to do anything. And it's certainly in that scene I remember that even the first time I wrote it that it just sort of took over and no one else was going. And so I was just, I was watching that or listening to that already. It's the girl happy with the guy then. No. No. No. I don't know. I was having trouble deciding whether this was a romantic scene or a rape. I don't think it's a rape. I think it doesn't come across that way. I mean she's the one who's the aggressor. She has a mama bear and all that. It happens without really thinking about it. So this is also that the time period of the 1950s in which she hasn't had much experience. And I think she's met someone that she suddenly is overcome with of her own feelings. And she doesn't stop to try to understand them or analyze them or anything. I think she's asking if she's happy or not. I mean in many ways the novel is much about the relationship of music also. So that's a lot of the passion and what it's about. It sounds like there was I hear the parallel between music and writing and some where you're describing what during explanations I can't pinpoint because it's not a friend of me. I just couldn't possibly be an artist. There's that and then just some of the tenets of being a good musician and being a good writer or their parallel or something like that a lot. Oh, thank you. Good. See now I'm going to have all this knowledge that I didn't have. Do you submit that individually to the generals in the light and as you're working towards an artist? No. I mean stand alone. Do you think it's a stand alone? Raise your hand if you think it's a stand alone. Well, thank you. Maybe I will at some point. I'm going to do it while I'm working on it because it feels a little too fragile for that. I know that I'll revise or change it too. But yeah, that's good to me. But you don't think of being able to do it now. Anyone else? I can't believe no one even asked me about the sexy. I feel like I got off the hook. Back to that panel. Oh my God, I'm reading a sexy. Here you are. Well, actually, I actually looked at Susan and said that's really well written sexy. It was very erotic but there was nothing like I like the way she said I looked at Susan and thought that Well, you said that. I'm sorry. I apologize. Thank you. All right.