So yeah, this is my essay for the Michigan Setback 500 word essay.
I'd be really thankful if you guys could give me some feedback.
A Note.
Each key plummeted as though self-propelled, irrepressible. Each note echoed through the dark room. Each error seemed to linger, and any break in the music would be fatal. A man sat beside me with a clipboard on his lap, his hand curved around a thin dark pen; these items unnerved me to the point of utter desperation. They were the testament, the judges of my skill. Even so, I persisted through the piece; eager to navigate this labyrinth of black and white; the colors that have defined nine years of my life. Nine years of crawling through arpeggios and stumbling on chords. I had finally gotten to the note. The note that would decide, the key that seemed would judge the entirety of my musical skill. It was wrong.
I was violently ripped into consciousness, as the wrong sound cracked as though from a gun. Now sitting in a cramped study room I waited. A thin lady with square glasses raised her head in what seemed like hours, her face unforgiving and lined with agitation. I braced for the confrontation that would surely follow. The lecture that I would soon be listening to would be vicious and unrelenting. The wrong note had appeared again. I had once again failed to impress my teacher. After receiving that remarkable mental thrashing I staggered home drowned in somber defeat. Slamming the front door, I quickly climbed onto my bed, unable to recount the day's events.
The next day, I sat with my hands resting on the faded white of my piano. As I scanned the butchered, abused music score I saw the note again diverting my attention, mocking my determination. I decided to lay waste to its attempts to foil my proficiency. I practiced. I practiced for the betterment of my piano teacher so that she would feel at rest when I played the piece before my judge. I practiced for the benefit of my parents who I needed to improve for. Yet I was constantly unsatisfied. Piano had become an obstacle to overcome.
I played the piano more and more each day, slowly reducing time for other activities. My friends left one by one, irritated by my lack of time. I explained again and again that I had to please my piano teacher in order to have free time. I clarified that I needed a certain amount of hours of practice. One of them scoffed at me and told me harshly that my piano wasn't made for my teacher to play. Piano was my hobby, yet I had never practiced for my own satisfaction. I finally understood that I had never been successful because of this.
I eyed the man with the clipboard and pen. My fingers sprang into a lively movement. A melodious tune emerged from the keyboard. The music was under my own control at last. I became more confident with each note. This was a confidence that I would exhibit in my future activities. I no longer bore the task of meeting the expectations of others. I came to enjoy the music I had been producing for half my life.
I'd be really thankful if you guys could give me some feedback.
A Note.
Each key plummeted as though self-propelled, irrepressible. Each note echoed through the dark room. Each error seemed to linger, and any break in the music would be fatal. A man sat beside me with a clipboard on his lap, his hand curved around a thin dark pen; these items unnerved me to the point of utter desperation. They were the testament, the judges of my skill. Even so, I persisted through the piece; eager to navigate this labyrinth of black and white; the colors that have defined nine years of my life. Nine years of crawling through arpeggios and stumbling on chords. I had finally gotten to the note. The note that would decide, the key that seemed would judge the entirety of my musical skill. It was wrong.
I was violently ripped into consciousness, as the wrong sound cracked as though from a gun. Now sitting in a cramped study room I waited. A thin lady with square glasses raised her head in what seemed like hours, her face unforgiving and lined with agitation. I braced for the confrontation that would surely follow. The lecture that I would soon be listening to would be vicious and unrelenting. The wrong note had appeared again. I had once again failed to impress my teacher. After receiving that remarkable mental thrashing I staggered home drowned in somber defeat. Slamming the front door, I quickly climbed onto my bed, unable to recount the day's events.
The next day, I sat with my hands resting on the faded white of my piano. As I scanned the butchered, abused music score I saw the note again diverting my attention, mocking my determination. I decided to lay waste to its attempts to foil my proficiency. I practiced. I practiced for the betterment of my piano teacher so that she would feel at rest when I played the piece before my judge. I practiced for the benefit of my parents who I needed to improve for. Yet I was constantly unsatisfied. Piano had become an obstacle to overcome.
I played the piano more and more each day, slowly reducing time for other activities. My friends left one by one, irritated by my lack of time. I explained again and again that I had to please my piano teacher in order to have free time. I clarified that I needed a certain amount of hours of practice. One of them scoffed at me and told me harshly that my piano wasn't made for my teacher to play. Piano was my hobby, yet I had never practiced for my own satisfaction. I finally understood that I had never been successful because of this.
I eyed the man with the clipboard and pen. My fingers sprang into a lively movement. A melodious tune emerged from the keyboard. The music was under my own control at last. I became more confident with each note. This was a confidence that I would exhibit in my future activities. I no longer bore the task of meeting the expectations of others. I came to enjoy the music I had been producing for half my life.
