Chapter Three
It was two hours later when Jay hung up the phone. He took a quick shower and then had something to eat. As he sat eating, his mind wandered back to the time when Aimee had been the most important person in his life.
When had they met? How had they met? It had been at the music academy, after school. His mother had taken him there first when he had been seven, and the first day he went was also Aimee’s first day. He remember arriving and being intimidated by the pristine white studio where the classes were held; the tall and gangly bearded music teacher, and the long silver flute that his mother had just given him, in its black silk-lined case. It had not been discussed before – he was to learn how to play the flute. The flute had already been chosen for him by his mother because it had his father’s favourite instrument. In fact, he learned later that the actual flute that Jay now posessed had been bought by his father shortly before he died. He had always wanted to learn how to play the instrument, and had acquired one shortly before his death with the intention of starting once he had recovered from his illness. It had never been played since, and had that strange smell and look of something that has been bought new and never used, or like the item in the shop that has been left unsold and lying on display for several years.
Jay remembered first meeting Aimee. They were put together as they were the newcomers to the class. He recalled that it had been comforting when, during the first recital by the music teacher, he looked sideways and saw that Aimee had been just as nervous, maybe even moreso than he.
Aimee had decided to play the flute herself. When it had been first suggested that she go to music classes, and her parents had asked her which instrument she would like to play, she had surprised them both by having a clear idea of the instrument. Jay had remembered that now and asked her about it, but Aimee didn’t have an answer. In fact, talk of the flute had surprised her. She hadn’t touched the instrument since the day she had been taken out of the academy and separated from Jay. Her parents had suggested another place, nearer her home in fact, but she had frimly toild them that she didn’t want to continue if she couldn’t go to the other music academy. And that had been that.
The separation had had the reverse effect on Jay, and he had plunged himself into his music studies. He had learnt how to play the instrument with grace and flair, and could have become a professional musician if he had wanted. Indeed, the ageing music teacher (now with grey beard and stopping) had suggested it. Of all his pupils he ahd ever taught, he had said, it was Jay who played with most inspiration and talent. He had told Jay how the sound of him playing could stop people in their tracks, and uplift their souls. But Jay had already decided that the insecure life of a concert hall musician was not for him. He couldn’t face the idea of performing in public. The few concerts he had given had been traumatic for him, and he tried to get out of them. Playing the flute for him was a private affair, something he did to relax and to transport himself to another world. It had become a secret language that he spoke when he wanted to touch his own soul, and he had no desire to share it with other people. Jay had already decided that he wanted a job where he could work from home, and which involved little contact with others. He was sixteen. Of course, his music teacher was devastated. The classes, in fact became unbearable, and Jay just stopped going. He continued playing, and extending his repertoire, but he did so in the privacy of his own home.
Jay now went to his flute and remeoved it from the case, took it carefully in his hands and looked at the instrument. It was the same instrument. A physical connection back to his old music teacher, to Aimee, to his father. He put it to his lips and started playing a piece he had recently discovered. It had been written by Georg Phillipp Telemann’s grandson Georg Michael, and Jay had been fascinated by it ever since he had discovered it. For Jay, it seemed to say a lot about the sadness of underachievement, of not taking something to the limit.
Jay continued playing this, and other pieces by Telemann for the rest of the day.
799 words his chapter
2384 words in total
47,616 words to write
25 days left
=1,905 words per day to write if I want to finish.
When had they met? How had they met? It had been at the music academy, after school. His mother had taken him there first when he had been seven, and the first day he went was also Aimee’s first day. He remember arriving and being intimidated by the pristine white studio where the classes were held; the tall and gangly bearded music teacher, and the long silver flute that his mother had just given him, in its black silk-lined case. It had not been discussed before – he was to learn how to play the flute. The flute had already been chosen for him by his mother because it had his father’s favourite instrument. In fact, he learned later that the actual flute that Jay now posessed had been bought by his father shortly before he died. He had always wanted to learn how to play the instrument, and had acquired one shortly before his death with the intention of starting once he had recovered from his illness. It had never been played since, and had that strange smell and look of something that has been bought new and never used, or like the item in the shop that has been left unsold and lying on display for several years.
Jay remembered first meeting Aimee. They were put together as they were the newcomers to the class. He recalled that it had been comforting when, during the first recital by the music teacher, he looked sideways and saw that Aimee had been just as nervous, maybe even moreso than he.
Aimee had decided to play the flute herself. When it had been first suggested that she go to music classes, and her parents had asked her which instrument she would like to play, she had surprised them both by having a clear idea of the instrument. Jay had remembered that now and asked her about it, but Aimee didn’t have an answer. In fact, talk of the flute had surprised her. She hadn’t touched the instrument since the day she had been taken out of the academy and separated from Jay. Her parents had suggested another place, nearer her home in fact, but she had frimly toild them that she didn’t want to continue if she couldn’t go to the other music academy. And that had been that.
The separation had had the reverse effect on Jay, and he had plunged himself into his music studies. He had learnt how to play the instrument with grace and flair, and could have become a professional musician if he had wanted. Indeed, the ageing music teacher (now with grey beard and stopping) had suggested it. Of all his pupils he ahd ever taught, he had said, it was Jay who played with most inspiration and talent. He had told Jay how the sound of him playing could stop people in their tracks, and uplift their souls. But Jay had already decided that the insecure life of a concert hall musician was not for him. He couldn’t face the idea of performing in public. The few concerts he had given had been traumatic for him, and he tried to get out of them. Playing the flute for him was a private affair, something he did to relax and to transport himself to another world. It had become a secret language that he spoke when he wanted to touch his own soul, and he had no desire to share it with other people. Jay had already decided that he wanted a job where he could work from home, and which involved little contact with others. He was sixteen. Of course, his music teacher was devastated. The classes, in fact became unbearable, and Jay just stopped going. He continued playing, and extending his repertoire, but he did so in the privacy of his own home.
Jay now went to his flute and remeoved it from the case, took it carefully in his hands and looked at the instrument. It was the same instrument. A physical connection back to his old music teacher, to Aimee, to his father. He put it to his lips and started playing a piece he had recently discovered. It had been written by Georg Phillipp Telemann’s grandson Georg Michael, and Jay had been fascinated by it ever since he had discovered it. For Jay, it seemed to say a lot about the sadness of underachievement, of not taking something to the limit.
Jay continued playing this, and other pieces by Telemann for the rest of the day.
799 words his chapter
2384 words in total
47,616 words to write
25 days left
=1,905 words per day to write if I want to finish.
posted by blog-efl at 5.11.04
6 Comments:
Oh, dear!
I know it can get to be too much and there's more pressure than people realise.
Still. Don't give up hope. This is the first NaNo weekend and that's a good thing.
As for flat uninspiring drivel - It's more a case of not writing when you're too tired to stand. Don't judge the quality of what you're writing.
Any. good luck and keep going.
Stompy
http://www.stompy.org
I would be going mad if I had decided to do NaNo.All I can say is "mucha mierda,tío".
Hey! Thanks Stompy - taking a day off did help, as I got up at seven raring to go...and wrote 700 words. I'm so far behind, that if I continue at this reat it would take me three monhs to write it, but I'm hoping for a sudden increase in pace.
I thought it being the weekend would help, but family commitments meant that Saturday was even busier than a weekday. Still, it's sunday, and I should be able to write more today...surely?
Anyway, thanks again Stompy for the encouragement. If it weren't for you and the others, I think I would have quit by now.
Gracias María. Es una locura intentar escribir algo con tanta prisa, y no he cogido el ritmo todavia, pero voy a seguir a ver si puedo acabar el mes con algo que parece un poco a una novela. Sigo pensando que lo que he escrito es horible, pero lo mas importante en este momento (supongo) es seguir adelante. Lo veo como un ejercicio para perder el miedo de escribir ficción. Si lo que escribo no vale nada, pues no importa si he escrito, ¿verdad? Pues, gracias por tu animo.
OK, I managed to write more - I've changed this post and now it's a little better...
That's only 238 words a day more that you have to write, which is only 14% more.
It's not so bad when you put it that way.
Hey! You're right - that's not bad at all is it?
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