Hello readers! I felt inspired lately to do a story outside of my previous published works. To that end I wrote this story, which you have just opened and clicked on. It's a bit more personal in nature, and I suppose less...hardcore than stories I have written before. This is the first chapter of this story, and I hope that you enjoy it. Any comments and constructive criticisms are welcome!
MaiaEmpire
My final semester of college ended with a flurry of whispers, followed by a whimper. Ever since I was a little girl who picked up a violin for the first time, I had always had that pipe dream of being a professional musician and joining a world-famous orchestra. To that end, I had migrated from my small Midwestern town to enroll in a university in Chicago to pursue that goal. I ended up double-majoring in music and literature, though performing was always my central focus. I had it all planned out -- complete my bachelor's in music, move on to a master's program or conservatory, and eventually get hired by an orchestral company to reap the accolades. Easy peasy.
Midway through my last term, I stopped by the mail room on the way back from rehearsal when I received a response letter from my top choice for a post-graduate music program. I rushed back to my dorm room and practically ripped open the envelope. My heart racing, I began to read.
To Elizabeth Anderson
Thank you for your interest in our Fall Music Conservatory program, and for your enthusiastic application. We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you enrollment in our program. The competitive level of our application pool required us to make some difficult decisions given the number of petitions we are able to fill. We hope that you will consider applying in our following application season...
I remember collapsing onto the edge of my bed as the rejection letter fell from my hands. I recalled clutching my violin case vainly, trying to assure myself that even though this was my first choice, that other options existed. I had sent out a lot of applications, I told myself. It took quite a few hours and quite a few tears before I forced myself to come to this conclusion.
That was the beginning of a trickle of even more rejections into my mailbox. I came to dread checking my mailbox or email, fearing yet another sting as my future seemed to chip away. Distraught, I set up a meeting with the music program advisor, a silver haired conductor who had clearly been receiving similar visits as despondent aspiring musicians filtered in with the same burning question as they approached graduation.
"Professor, what did I do wrong?" I asked him as I sat in his crowded office, with sheet music scattered about his desk.
"It's a very competitive field, Ella. There are many applicants for every single position out there." He shrugged helplessly. "This happens every spring."
"But Professor," I started, "I've been First Chair for most of my time here. I practice so much, and I work so hard."
"And I know you do," he nodded indifferently, while quickly glancing at his computer screen.
I shrugged in vain. "Is there something wrong with me? Am I just not that good?"
The professor clicked with his mouse at something on the screen. Opening a new email, probably. "Ella, you are exceptionally talented. You wouldn't be First Chair if I didn't think so. You have a proficiency, but there's more to performing than that."
I held my breath. "More to it?"
He clicked the button once more, and then turned to look at me, gravely. "There is more to performing than just simply playing the notes, than just playing accurately. Yes, you are very proficient, but you have a tendency to be too mechanical in your playing. There's just, for lack of better word, a passion that you are missing."
I sat stunned, feeling my eyes burn. "Are you saying I'm just playing by rout?"
The professor turned back to his monitor uncomfortably. "Not at all. But a lot of these programs expect more than just raw talent. I can't speak to what they look for in candidates. I'm sure if you keep applying, something will happen for you." He then started typing something into his keyboard, almost as an excuse to end the conversation.
I walked out of the meeting, feeling as if something inside of me had died. The polite yet devastating dismissal ached and a great wave of depression was beginning to set in. With my credits I was all set to graduate in May, but that was the moment I began to neglect practicing. It began to hurt just to pick up my bow. Even during our final spring performance, I was numb and though I hit every single note on the page, my heart wasn't in it. I emotionlessly congratulated my fellow orchestra members as they chattered about their plans for the fall, but out of shame I remained silent about my own plans.
As the end of the year approached, I began to feel that perhaps I needed to distance myself from music, at least for a little while. I simply didn't have the drive. I explored my options; going back to Iowa to live with my parents was not on my list, and I even considered staying in Chicago to get a job somewhere for the summer. Even bussing tables felt preferable to looking at a sheet of music at this point.
However, during a meeting with a counselor at our campus career center, she asked me about my literature major, and asked if I had ever considered English teaching. I explained I was simply an avid reader and didn't think it could lead to a career. She explained that there were many countries out there that needed English as a second language teachers, which typically amounted to a year's contract in some exotic locale. She made it sound like a grand adventure, and I was very intrigued. Thinking that this perhaps could be my opportunity to take some time away from my music, I contacted an agency that specializes in ESL placement.
The agency was quite accommodating, and offered contracts in many countries. I had little interest in living in a tropical location, Europe was too expensive, and being sequestered in a compound in the Middle East was simply not an option despite their lavish pay. It was at this point the recruiter suggested South Korea. It was modern, eager for new teachers, and offered a generous wage. To hell with it, I thought to myself, and signed up.
I told my mother and father about my plans when they came for my graduation ceremony. They were skeptical at first, insisting that I should continue to pursue my music. After a long conversation, I convinced them that a hiatus from music is what I needed for now, and that an adventure overseas is simply something that you should do while you're young. In the end they supported me, and after collecting my diploma we drove back home to Iowa.
I spent the next month and a half preparing my paperwork as the agency contacted a school named Joy Academy and organized my visa. There were training modules I took online as a sort of crash course in teaching. I had given violin lessons part time before, though I suppose I was a bit nervous about being in front of an entire classroom. Part of the adventure, I told myself. My paperwork was finalized in July, and my airline ticket, provided by my school, was arranged.
I packed my humongous wheeled suitcase as full as it possibly could be. The agency explained that South Korea offered much of what could be found in the United States, but I didn't want to take any chances, stuffing as many bras and novels inside as I possibly could. As I slung my laptop case over my shoulder and prepared to haul my suitcase to the car, I looked back at my violin case, sitting upright on the chair in my room. The pit of my stomach churned, but I simply turned and left it behind.
My parents and I drove back to Chicago for my flight. The road trip was our last outing as a family for a while, and once we pulled into the departures gate at O'hare International the three of us collectively realized how far apart we would be as we choked back tears. I gave my dad the biggest hug I could, and he went to unload my monster of a suitcase. I turned to hug my mom, as I saw her stealthy pull out something from the trunk.
It was my violin case. I had no idea how she managed to sneak it into the car without me knowing.
"But Mom," I stammered, "why did you --"
"Listen, Ella," Mom objected. "I know how you are feeling about your music now. I know how much you loved to play, and I know how much it hurts. But this is a big part of you, and when you are ready to play again, it needs to be there for you."
