Francis Meyrick

(I originally wrote this tongue-in-cheek story for “Writer’s Cafe “, deliberately full of all sorts of technical goblins, as a protest against the beatings I saw regularly being dished out by some remarkably haughty and unfeeling “popular ” writers, who sat in contemptuous judgment of struggling artists; it fell on deaf ears, and I eventually left, to set up our own tiny little corner of Cyberspace… We may be small, but we’re at peace…)

When I was a young teenager, we had a piano in the house.
I used to plink out little tunes I taught myself. Two fingers. I liked that piano.
I liked the sound it made. Guess what. It made better sounds if you played it better…

If you are a serious literary critic, by now, I hope you’re getting a bit annoyed.
I can just hear your mind:
Tsk! Tsk!… “I liked the sound it made. ” “It made better sounds if you played it better… ” What kind of prose is this? A young teenager? Have you ever heard of an OLD teenager???
What kind of prose is this?? Full of mistakes!!! Of course it makes sound! It’s a piano! Get on with the story! “

My parents, meaning well, hired a piano teacher.
He wasn’t cheap. He would actually come to the house. And teach me. This went on for a couple of years. I got to be pretty good. Not a Tchaikovsky player, or Rachmaninoff. But still a pretty good piano player.
Now ask me a question: when did I last play the piano?
Answer: when I was a teenager.
Huh?
The teacher was very skilled. But I don’t ever remember him smile. Not once. He never laughed. He was a joyless soul. What I do remember is that we would practice and practice and practice. And when at last, at last, I would play the whole tune without a single mistake…. he’d turn the page. And we’d move on to the next piece, which was always a little bit harder.
Some pieces were fun to play. Because they were fun, I’d practice a lot. Then I got good. But then, next lesson, he’d just turn the page to a horrible one.
So what was the point….?

Well, time went by, and I grew to slowly hate the sound of his car coming.
I grew to hate the sound of the door bell ringing. And, surprise, surprise, I grew to hate that damn awful stupid f…ing piano!

Tsk! Tsk! “I liked the sound it made. ” “It made better sounds if you played it better… ” What kind of nonsense prose is this?
Of course it makes sound! It’s a piano! Get on with the story! “

And so, my dear literary reviewer, when I read you blasting other people’s work, having failed to find one single good and noteworthy merit, then I want to say to you:

“There’s sound, and then, there’s sound. “
They are not the same.
Happy sound. Sad sound.
Sound you love. Sound you hate.
Don’t… kill.. the… sound!

Photo by Moriza

Don’t kill people’s love to write. Don’t hurt their need for self expression. Just because somebody’s poetry or fiction is simple, and doesn’t appeal to your erudite taste, doesn’t mean that their creative efforts are to be ridiculed. BEHIND those “simple ” words may rest very complex personalities, amazing life experiences, and truly intense emotional and spiritual sensitivity.

The “Harbor ” is not the place to be if you want rave reviews, be recognized amongst your peers for “most viewed “, “Most friends “, “Most STARS “….
The “Harbor ” is not the place for you if you want public acclaim, as a step on the road towards becoming a widely famous, published author…

The “Harbor ” IS the place for you if you enjoy the music.
Even the simple tunes.

The ones people write and play with two fingers…

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 6, 2011, 10:57 am