When I was very young (probably five or six years old) I wrote my first piece of music.
I spent several hours thoughtfully sketching out the notes of my composition onto a staff. I gave deep consideration to the pattens of notes in my piece, as well as to the recurrence of patterns and themes within its structure. I wanted to write something with clarity and depth. A thing of beauty.
I poured my heart into this composition, and my final rendition consisted of a full page of a music that I was very proud of. Though I was untrained as a musician at this point, I assumed that my hard work and creativity would be apparent when the piece was played by a competent performer.
A few days later, I went with my older brother to his piano lesson, where I asked his teacher to play my composition. To her immense credit, she gave it her best shot, faithfully playing every note that I had put on the page. And my heart sunk to realize that my composition had no musical value whatsoever. Where I thought I had been writing music, I had really only been drawing dots onto a page.
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