Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Waiting for the Maestro till lift his baton

The notes for my next book are stacked next to me, waiting to be made into sentences then paragraphs then chapters.  I see the characters in my head, I hear their voices, see what they're wearing and yet to put them down into alludes me.

Am I in the way or is it simply the Giver of the words directing time as a Maestro directs an orchestra.  The violins stay silent as the percussion and woodwinds set the beat.  How hard it must be to be the violin's bow.  The music you know is possible if you are just picked up and placed on the strings of your partner's neck.

The gentle rumble of the tympani, the sweet fluttering breeze of the piccolo joined with the flute.  Soon the other woodwinds, the deeper clarinet and deeper still oboe join in to make a sweet harmony.

Alas, it's time for the violin debut.  Gently placed on the musician's neck, the bow at attention, waiting for the cue from the conductor.  Soon the strings are singing, adding harmony and depth, the violins, the viola, the cello, the bass.  How sweet the music sounds when each sings their harmonies, neither needing a solo, eager to be a part of something bigger.   How sweet the music is when each waits their turn to bring to the moment each perfectly planned measure and beat.

If one instrument, even two or three were missing, the music would be enjoyed, but when the full orchestra is in time with the Maestro, each waiting patiently for their debut, sweeter sounds have not been sung then an full orchestra in tune with the Master.

So alas, I wait, like the violin's bow.  Watching for the Maestro's signal, listening to the beat of the drum.

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