jeffliwin
Dec 28, 2009
Writing Feedback / Pieces of Literature (section of a magazine) [2]
I'm trying to submit this for the literature section of a magazine, and I was hoping for some feedback.
The Sonata-Allegro form of music can be captured in three stages: the exposition, the development, and the recapitulation. This form also is the structure of my life. The story of life is an ever flowing, intricate piece of work, and influenced by culture, interests, and experiences.
The Exposition. In music, this is where the theme, the initial story begins. As a child, I was given so many opportunities, so many chances to get ahead in life. Open doors paved the road of my life's story. I dabbled in music, in art, in language, and so much more. My parents were supportive during this time, giving me the freedom to choose and find my passions and joys.
The Development. In this stage, the story takes an interesting turn, and a contrast of the theme is introduced. For me, this began when my brother was born. I was an only child for six years, the center of attention, the only star. But when my siblings, who are two years apart, where born, my parent's attention shifted towards them. Unable to cope with this drastic change in my life, I changed for the worse. I was no longer motivated, no longer happy. There was no precise date, but a gradual process, in which I lost my voice. I stopped drawing, for fear it wasn't good enough. I stopped writing, for it didn't attract the attention I desired. For years, the development lasted, years of self-induced misery.
The Recapitulation. The finale of the piece, the moment where the audience is taken back to the original theme, and the piece is concluded. This is my resolution. I don't know what caused it, perhaps it was the years of pent up emotions, but I finally awoke, from an ethereal dream, and I realized that I don't live to seek attention, I don't live for others. I live for myself. This moment, this realization, was what made me who I am today. I had regained my voice. My passions, my art, my writing, slowly began to make their return. My soul now poured effortlessly into my actions, and I no longer just carried out the motions. I was back on my path, and writing my own story. And although the recapitulation is the ending for a musical journey, it is the beginning of mine. This is my music, this is the Sonata Allegro of Life.
I can sit in front of a piece of paper for hours at a time, my gaze boring holes into the pristine white. I sit there, with that piece of paper, and just let time flow around me. I'm desperate for inspiration, my mind begs me to start, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
I guess I could be considered an artist - with words, with images, with sounds. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music. But at the moment, I'm not. I'm not an artist, for what is an artist without imagination, without inspiration? I look at that piece of paper, and decide that I'm going to write, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
My mind wanders, and I don't know how much time has passed. I could be doing so much more, homework, chores, or just resting, but I'm so fixated on this blank page, I can't pull away. So I sit, tut-tutting away with my pen. Finally, I place the nib, so that the soft tip caresses the page, but then I pull back. I try to snap out of my lull, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
Time's running out, and it's now dark outside. I look at this blank sheet, and think, "What is this even for?" I realize that I don't even spend this much time studying or doing homework. Why is it that I'll spend this much time, attempting to create something that isn't worth anything? I think I know what to do.
It's nearly two in the morning, and I have spent nearly half a day, secluded in my room, locked away from the world. Only the soft murmur of my dog's breath beside me keeps me tied to reality. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music, all for a reason. I don't need to prove anything to anyone when I do those. When I spend my time, delving deep into the arts, I try my hardest, I become a perfectionist. Why? Because I can. There is no physical value to my fervor, but my expression is everything to me. I know what to do.
The sun begins to rise, and my paper is no longer blank. Words and pictures, an opus of my mind and soul has etched itself onto the paper. My thoughts and emotions, no longer held by a reservoir of my heart, splash onto the canvas. I have spent an eternity on this piece, and I don't know what to do with it. Maybe I'll keep it, frame it. Or perhaps I'll burn it. It would make a great fire.
I guess many people think I have my priorities wrong, to spend so much time on something so trivial. But I know that when my inspiration comes, I would stop everything else. I can make-up my homework, I can apologize for cutting a conversation short, but if I prolong inspiration, it will fade away and never be replaced. This is what I do.
I'm trying to submit this for the literature section of a magazine, and I was hoping for some feedback.
The Sonata-Allegro form of music can be captured in three stages: the exposition, the development, and the recapitulation. This form also is the structure of my life. The story of life is an ever flowing, intricate piece of work, and influenced by culture, interests, and experiences.
The Exposition. In music, this is where the theme, the initial story begins. As a child, I was given so many opportunities, so many chances to get ahead in life. Open doors paved the road of my life's story. I dabbled in music, in art, in language, and so much more. My parents were supportive during this time, giving me the freedom to choose and find my passions and joys.
The Development. In this stage, the story takes an interesting turn, and a contrast of the theme is introduced. For me, this began when my brother was born. I was an only child for six years, the center of attention, the only star. But when my siblings, who are two years apart, where born, my parent's attention shifted towards them. Unable to cope with this drastic change in my life, I changed for the worse. I was no longer motivated, no longer happy. There was no precise date, but a gradual process, in which I lost my voice. I stopped drawing, for fear it wasn't good enough. I stopped writing, for it didn't attract the attention I desired. For years, the development lasted, years of self-induced misery.
The Recapitulation. The finale of the piece, the moment where the audience is taken back to the original theme, and the piece is concluded. This is my resolution. I don't know what caused it, perhaps it was the years of pent up emotions, but I finally awoke, from an ethereal dream, and I realized that I don't live to seek attention, I don't live for others. I live for myself. This moment, this realization, was what made me who I am today. I had regained my voice. My passions, my art, my writing, slowly began to make their return. My soul now poured effortlessly into my actions, and I no longer just carried out the motions. I was back on my path, and writing my own story. And although the recapitulation is the ending for a musical journey, it is the beginning of mine. This is my music, this is the Sonata Allegro of Life.
I can sit in front of a piece of paper for hours at a time, my gaze boring holes into the pristine white. I sit there, with that piece of paper, and just let time flow around me. I'm desperate for inspiration, my mind begs me to start, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
I guess I could be considered an artist - with words, with images, with sounds. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music. But at the moment, I'm not. I'm not an artist, for what is an artist without imagination, without inspiration? I look at that piece of paper, and decide that I'm going to write, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
My mind wanders, and I don't know how much time has passed. I could be doing so much more, homework, chores, or just resting, but I'm so fixated on this blank page, I can't pull away. So I sit, tut-tutting away with my pen. Finally, I place the nib, so that the soft tip caresses the page, but then I pull back. I try to snap out of my lull, but I can't. I don't know what to do.
Time's running out, and it's now dark outside. I look at this blank sheet, and think, "What is this even for?" I realize that I don't even spend this much time studying or doing homework. Why is it that I'll spend this much time, attempting to create something that isn't worth anything? I think I know what to do.
It's nearly two in the morning, and I have spent nearly half a day, secluded in my room, locked away from the world. Only the soft murmur of my dog's breath beside me keeps me tied to reality. I write stories, I draw pictures, I play music, all for a reason. I don't need to prove anything to anyone when I do those. When I spend my time, delving deep into the arts, I try my hardest, I become a perfectionist. Why? Because I can. There is no physical value to my fervor, but my expression is everything to me. I know what to do.
The sun begins to rise, and my paper is no longer blank. Words and pictures, an opus of my mind and soul has etched itself onto the paper. My thoughts and emotions, no longer held by a reservoir of my heart, splash onto the canvas. I have spent an eternity on this piece, and I don't know what to do with it. Maybe I'll keep it, frame it. Or perhaps I'll burn it. It would make a great fire.
I guess many people think I have my priorities wrong, to spend so much time on something so trivial. But I know that when my inspiration comes, I would stop everything else. I can make-up my homework, I can apologize for cutting a conversation short, but if I prolong inspiration, it will fade away and never be replaced. This is what I do.
