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     Hi!

     Honestly, I'll be surprised if anyone reads this. I saw my last post on here was in 2017. I have to do math to figure out how long ago that was. Well... kinda lol. If you ARE reading this, thanks!

     Here's what's happened...

     Guess what? I graduated college with a Mass Communications degree in 2018. Then, I worked in various ways in the film industry. That's not what this post is about, though. :)

     In the intervening time as far as writing goes, I've been continuing with little Sims stories, not really motivated to do more. I have the ?fourth? A Story With No Title sitting and waiting to be formatted... still..., but I'm not sure I want to publish it. Yet. Someone pointed out to me a few years ago a very disturbing theme in my writing, and upon re-reading the latest in the series of books, I see it again. I don't want that, so it's going to take a little work to tap it out of existence yet keep most of what was written. (and then to shoo away all those destructive, darn butterflies from the butterfly effect that will cause) I'm not saying it won't happen, but it is yet again on the back burner. :(

     THEN, just before Christmas 2021, I got COVID (Merry Coronamas to me). It wasn't horrible, just a bad flu, no hospital or anything like that, BUT what it did to my mind was tragic. I lost my imagination. Yes, I realize how freaking ridiculous that sounds, so go ahead and laugh. >.< In all seriousness, though, I wasn't even able to come up with little fantasies in my head to trick myself into going to sleep at night (what I would normally do). I spent 2022 in a fog. I even gave up on my sims stories. It was horrible, and I feared I would never write again.

     A wonderful, brilliant pianist named Anthony told me I should just write what I've already written over again, meaning the brain is kind of a muscle that needs building up. I'm like, 'yeah, right. okay. sure,' not really believing it. Six months later, I gave it a shot. Meh, not so great. Then, I thought I'd try writing the way I STARTED in the first place: sims stories. I stared 'Alicekai'd,' a story going along an anime theme called isekai, where 'real world' people would find themselves in some kind of simulated one. 'That would make a neat sims story,' I thought. It's actually not that bad, even though I'm not quite positive how it'll end. I may need actual real world actors and stuff, which it isn't like I'm not capable of that. At any rate (going off on a tangent is one of my biggest weaknesses, bear with me), I WAS WRITING AGAIN. :)

     The dam burst. I couldn't STOP writing. I think I went thirty-six hours with no sleep in the beginning of it. Of course, it was still just the sims stuff, but I was happy. I opened back up 'After the End,' an apocalyptic tale, and that fueled my 'don't just write about what happened in the game but write ahead' muscle, meaning it became story-driven not game-driven. Then one week I wrote 100k words ahead, again, not much sleeping.

     Ya know what? Anthony the pianist was right. :)

     It was time to write for real. But what? I started about five different books that were going nowhere. I almost gave up again.

     Then the power went out for almost twenty-four hours thanks to a freaking thunderstorm. I was so BORED. I read a book in a matter of hours. Then another one. Then I found an old notebook with lots of empty pages. Eh, it's not like I could do laundry, right? I got on my phone (which I could charge in the car) and found some writing prompts.

     Dat da DA!

     We have finally arrived to the whole point of this post. lol.

     I have what I think, so far, is a tale that I'm really loving. It's about a cellist (actual job as a receptionist) who's been divorced for a year and trying to make it in the real world after getting screwed over in her divorce. Her best friend tries to get her to start dating again, and she insists she's not interested. So, the best friend convinces her to join the actually-very-competitive community orchestra. To her surprise, she makes it. Remember I said she's not interested in dating? The new orchestra conductor has other ideas...

     Ah, heck, I'll plop down a first draft teaser. It's not the actual beginning beginning since the premise was mentioned above. Now, keep in mind it's a FIRST DRAFT:

     I have to squeeze the handle of my cello case as I walk into XXHS’s auditorium, where the orchestra practices every Tuesday night. My hand won’t stop shaking, and I’m worried the handle will start rattling loudly against the rest of the case. At work today, Gen was going on about how we have a new conductor this year, some man only a little older than I. Okay, so we’ll both be new. It’s not like I’m coming in and having a conductor who’s been with them for a while wondering ‘who is this new girl and how the hell did she pass the audition?’

     This is going to be a disaster, I think as I climb the three or four stairs in front of the building. A man carrying either a trumpet case or something of the same size smiles slightly as he holds open a door for me. Even though I don’t need the old-fashioned show of ‘chivalry,’ I thank him anyway.

     “You’re new,” he points out brilliantly.

     “No, I’m old.” It’s almost a knee-jerk response to the statement. I’m thirty-three.

     Luckily, he must be able to get my joke because he laughs as the door closes behind us.

     “I’m Jake.” Jake is taller than me even if not overly so, and he has a lean build. The business attire he wears, a button-down shirt and slacks, hangs off him. His short brown hair is in total disarray in that fashion which is usually done that way on purpose.

     “Congratulations.” Again, it’s almost an auto-response. I somehow turn into a class clown when I get nervous.

     He laughs again. “I guess I have to ask directly. What’s your name?”

     “Pepper.” Here we go.

     He gets that two-second look of confusion I frequently see. “That’s… unusual.”

     “My parents were Peanuts fans.” Let him figure it out.

     He doesn’t get to ask any more because we’ve both arrived at the stage. I find my way to the cellos and take the fourth seat, placing me in the middle of the second row of cellos. To my everlasting amazement, not only did I pass the audition, but they took people with less skill than I had.

     I fish out my music and place it on the stand in front of me. Turning slightly to my right, I see Gen give me a little wave. She’s first chair oboe, having chosen the instrument during her school years when the band director had said it was one of the most difficult instruments out there. To her, that meant he was issuing a challenge, and she accepted. I wave back.

     The third and fifth chair cellists walk in, already in the middle of a conversation. “He’s coming in from ___.”

     "Don’t you mean coming DOWN from ___? What’s he doing here?” Her tone implies whomever it is happens to be stepping down the ladder rather than up.

     “Search me, but I heard a rumor about misappropriation of funds or something.”

     “And WE hired him?”

     “Like I said, it’s just a rumor.”

     The one to my left finally notices me starting straight ahead and trying not to listen in to their conversation. “Hi. I’m Ellen.” She holds out a calloused hand.

     I shake it. “Pepper.”

     She smirks. “My sister has a cat with that name.”

     “That should make it easier to remember.”

     She smiles. “This is Julia.”

     Julia glances at me and nods, but she looks distracted by something going on further back on the stage.

     I can almost hear Ellen roll her eyes. “He’ll be here, Julia.”

     Julia’s head suddenly jumps in her friend’s direction. “Shh!”

     Ellen decides to fill me in. “She’s had a thing for a trumpet player named Jake for, um, three years or so.”

     “Ellen! Shut up!”

     She laughs the kind of laugh that betrays decades of a smoking habit, a little scratchy. Then she coughs. “What? She’s going to be sitting between us; I figured I may as well fill her in.”

     “Um, I think I met a Jake on my way in,” I mention.

     Julia’s eyes first pop to me before her head follows. “Really? What did he look like?”

     Ellen interrupts, “Oh yes, because there are loads of trumpet players named Jake.”

     After Julia shushes her, I describe him. Of course, it’s the same one.

     “Then where is he?” She looks around, and I pluck a few strings, once again trying to get a particular run of notes correct. It’s almost flying up the scale, but it doubles back in an odd, but brilliant, manner. It also contains a weird syncopation that makes me wonder what it’s going to sound like with all the other parts. It’s genius. It’s hard. All in all: it’s the run from hell.

     When I look up from my stand, a slight hush comes over the orchestra as a man walks in. He’s not carrying a case, just some kind of hard plastic tube I know probably houses a baton. He has a kind of medium build, dark brown hair cut in thin layers that end just before his neck, and probably stands above six feet. His jaw is set in a kind of determined way, displaying a stylized short beard/five o’clock shadow. Getting a closer look as he continues to approach, it’s impossible to say he’s anything but attractive. No, he’s gorgeous. He has one of those faces that either needs to star in a film or advertise whatever, the kind of face that causes my insides to fight to keep from melting like a pre-teen with her first crush. The conductor has arrived. Trying to act like it's no big deal, I go back and look again at that same run, even if I do attempt to be quieter about it.

     Without much aplomb, the new guy walks up to the square podium and holds up his hands as a way to get everyone’s attention. It takes a few moments for the eighty or so adults to quiet down as much as he desires, and he waits with a deadpan expression. Finally satisfied, he introduces himself as Carrick Starling and is pleased to be working with us and so on, and he tells us what we’re rehearsing first.

     Of course, it’s the piece with THAT RUN in it.

     The first chair violinist stands, and I actually jump a little as I only very suddenly remember everyone tunes together. It’s traditionally this guy’s job to lead it. Then, Gen does her thing, and we all get tuned to her concert A.

     The conductor cuts it off, apparently shorter than what most are used to judging by the extended cacophony past the cutoff. He waits for the concertmaster to regain his seat. Then he gives us a few beats, and we begin… And it becomes quickly obvious that not everyone rehearsed at home over the week with the same terrified desperation as I had. To put it bluntly, we suck. This Mr. Starling must agree with me because he stops us.

     “How many of you are looking at this for the first time?” He raises his eyebrows and waits. No one responds. Maybe they’re all intimidated. Sure, he’s gorgeous, but that doesn’t make him scary.

     I can’t help it. I’m not exactly loud, but I audibly say, “Maybe they got the other arrangement.” There is no other arrangement. It’s a new composition, hence the joke. Of course, my tone heavily implies I said it in jest.

     His eyes snap over to me, and I feel myself go scarlet. Why can I never seem to keep my mouth shut? He’s about to throw me out of here. Then I look back at the music. In the upper right corner, I notice something that has just taken on a new significance: Starling. He wrote it. Crap. Is he sensitive?

     “And which arrangement do you have Ms. …?” He leaves his question hanging, implying he’s asking my name.

     “The first one, I presume.” I don’t give it to him.

     I start to wonder if he’s picking on me when he asks, “Let’s find out. Could you play measures forty-one and forty-two, please?”

     Dammit. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. My neighbors especially can understand the weightiness of the measures. “I’ll do my best as it is at this moment.” Since I’m probably about to be thrown out anyway, I don’t hold back.

     Maybe it’s the result of adrenaline or simply the fact that I already know I’m a goner, but I relax… and nail it. Once finished, I blink a few times as if trying to decide whether or not that actually just happened. It did. Hah! I smile despite knowing I’m probably still headed for the door.

     It’s hard to tell, but I think the conductor smirks. At any rate, the corners of his lips quirk. “Yes, it does sound like the first arrangement.” He looks out over the orchestra. “Does anyone else have what they might think is a different one? Perhaps a different song altogether? Just a reminder, but we’re playing ___.” He once more raises his eyebrows as no one else dares utter a word. I notice out of the corner of my eye as one of the violas changes the page in front of him. “Good then. Now, if the majority of you practiced at home like Ms. …” He pauses, but I still don’t give my name. “…did, then perhaps it might actually SOUND like ___ is intended to sound. Let’s try that again, shall we?”

     We begin again, and I slowly sink more and more into my seat, hoping Mr. Starling forgets I exist and doesn’t remember that he wants to ask me never to come back. I hope I imagine it, but I’d swear his eyes keep coming back to me, the troublemaker.

     Practice finally ends, and I’m willing to bet I have never packed up my cello so fast in my entire life. Thank heavens, the conductor gets swarmed by other orchestra members, asking who knows what, and I’m able to slip out unnoticed. With any luck, he’ll forget all about my comment.

     When I crash back through the door to my apartment, I put my cello case down and dig out my music folder, wanting to take another quick peep at ___.

     It isn’t in my folder. I remember where it is with a pathetic cry.

     I left it on my music stand in the auditorium. 

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:) I'll do my best to keep everyone posted more often, actually using this blog for its intended purpose. Until next time, stay safe and never stop reading! ~Erin