A Crisis of Faith

I am about to finish my second degree in music, my masters, which I've wanted for ages. There are times when I am motivated to the core to pursue the musical path I've had in my sights since I was a child. Yet...

Now is the season when thousands of voice students and para-professionals across the country prepare applications to young artist programs and summer festivals that enable them to build their stage resumes. I am gamely entering the fray, encouraged by my teacher but soundly discouraged by the prospects. There are around 200 programs internationally. There is fierce competition to get in. A few I've looked into accept 25 singers from 500 applicants, or 1 in 20. And although there are larger programs that bring in a range of participants, they often cost upwards of $3,000.

But that's not the problem. It's the process. Who you know is more important than what you know, and you certainly still have to know your stuff. And the countless deadlines, and the fees, and the applications that bark: Incomplete applications will not be processed; Please be advised that sending an application does not guarantee an audition; and Age limits: women- 30, men- 32. Demoralizing to say the least.

This morning, I dawdled over my doggerel instead of running off to practice, as I usually make myself do in the mornings. I could picture a productive day at home, trying my hand at writing and seeing where it takes me. Writing is much like practicing music: by the time we get to the finished product, all the hard work has been done, and we are left with the result, as perfect and flawed as it will be at that time in the development of the person creating it. A musical performance involves a great deal more of spontanaeity than a finely tuned piece of prose, but also much more risk. And not just a risk of mistakes: the difference between a competent performance and a transcendent one can be measured by a hair's breadth.

Writing is more forgiving, and allows so much time for the development of the writer before a "performance:" the publication or revealing of his work. It also seems to allow for broad range of aesthetic tastes. A singer with an unattractive voice faces an uphill batle with any and all audiences. A writer with a repugnant style will still appeal to some people.

I found myself in a foul mood this week, and felt immediately better when I relieved myself of its source. I had begun a book of short stories by Ha Jin, and quickly abandoned it when it filled me with despair. Story 1: public mortification and stomach-turning suicide; story 2: gang rape; story 3: a pig fight that mortally gouges the flesh of a young boy. I'm old fashioned, but I like my art to be beautiful.

I fled to Truman Capote, who I had managed to never encounter before, and I'm a much happier girl. Phrases like "bouncy bon voyage oompahpah" or simply "Holly rubbed her nose" let me paint my own pictures and imagine the characters as if they were my own creation. It's an element that music and writing again have in common: setting the audience at ease and transporting them to a different, and often idyllic, place.

So now it's 8:30 on a Thursday night, I've frittered away good practice time by sitting here writing about writing without ever really writing (this blog is little more than scantily edited stream of consciousness) and wondering if I am coming close to developing my voice, but only to discover that that voice could be better off as soundless words on paper.