“When you write a book, you have to let it go at some point. You stop fiddling with the text, and the story is set in print. And then, it isn’t yours anymore. Not really. It belongs to the people who read it, which is a wonderful – and painful – surrender.”
– John Green
John Green goes on to talk about the particular difficulty of surrendering his first novel, Looking for Alaska.
The same thing, of course, is true for composers…only perhaps more so, because when a composer surrenders her piece, the “reader” in this case is a musical performer or ensemble who gets to play a deep role in interpreting the piece – as a conduit between the composer and the listener. It’s far more of a structural component than the book plays in transmitting words between an author and a reader.
As I prepare to send out an original score in a couple of days, I’m in the throes of preparing for this wonderful/painful surrender.
Am I making the score and notes clear enough for the singers? (Because if I don’t, they won’t connect with the piece.)
Am I writing something that will speak to them? (All I can do is write something that speaks to me, and hope that it translates.)
Am I even qualified to write this music? (Imposter Syndrome is a pervasive companion.)
It gets easier, the more scores you ship off into the void – you learn your craft, but you also learn how to communicate and connect with your ensembles. But there is something always thrilling/terrifying (or wonderful/painful) about the moment your creation leaves your control.