“Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.”
— John Steinbeck
An idea is born. It might look something like this:
So what comes next? How to fill the space, to continue the motion? How to lead the listener to a satisfying conclusion?
The idea gives birth to its counterpart:
Together they complete the sentence, or at least get closer to finishing it. They further the musical thought, stretch it out. My ears perk up as we ascend. …But is this the best possible version? Again, I stab blindly in the dark. The ideas divide once more.
Multiple possibilities now. Two paths diverge in a yellow wood. Should I link these ideas together like a daisy chain? Will it take the form of a complete thought, or will the stitches show? Just as a ship is made from many pieces of steel, a complete piece of music must be sewn together so seamlessly that the vessel becomes airtight.
Ideas beget ideas. There’s this one:
And that one:
Now I’m just spinning in a circle, anchored by indecision to the same spot. Turning the idea over and over in my head. Each division brings a new mutation.
I feel a bit like this guy:
One (or maybe a few of these ideas) will eventually become part of a finished piece. Its siblings may be discarded or salvaged. Some will be thrown in the rubbish heap, some dismembered, others stripped of their gold teeth and thrown in an anonymous grave. As the writing process stretches from weeks into months, I too become stretched.