So today I have a story for you all.
I have just moved down to Camarillo, CA and have been getting acclimated pretty well down here. I've been moving into my room, moving my stuff down from Modesto, getting ready to move into a new place in Santa Barbara (more on that later), and being quite successful in making The Biologist's cat, Henry, love me. I've also been doing my best to get in the habit of staying in shape, being that I'm no longer taking dance class and rehearsal six days a week.
My grandpa, R2's, place is on a steep hill and there's a lovely street that goes down hill, past some large and lovely houses, and straightens out with a gorgeous view of the valley and sometimes, if its not too foggy or smoggy, the not-too-distant coast. It also ends in a little, quiet court, partly shaded by trees, where I've been doing some dancer things to help stay in dancer shape...sort of.
I've done this a fair few times, made some nice conversation with neighbors, stayed in pretty good shape too. The other day, however, something interesting happened at the bottom of that hill, and it got me going on this whole inner-dialogue, which had to do a lot with writing, hence the reason why I'm sharing it with you today.
So I'm turning the corner to the bottom of this hill. The June fog is hanging somewhat sickly in the air. The wind feels slightly sharp against my cold skin, and I know I've got a steep hill to climb back up again.
But as I'm working my way down, I begin to hear something truly stunning. It's piano music, a piece I've danced to before in a hot, sticky, cramped studio once upon a time...not too long ago.
And immediately, the street around me changes in the only way an inspiring piece of music can do. I wasn't about to work out, I was about to dance. By that time, I figured one of the houses not too far up was playing the music, either by instrument or recording I didn't know, but it didn't matter. I got to the bottom of the hill and became a dancer, even though I was in a sweat shirt and running shoes. No one could see me. I was alone. Just me and the music. And it was wonderful.
So the reason I bring this up.
It's not specifically because of my side of the story but because of the music player's side. Because perhaps that person, whether they were playing it themselves or not, didn't know that there was a girl, who was new to the area, getting ready to take on the big, open world by herself, taking a moment to dance to the music at the bottom of the hill.
They didn't know it and yet their music was inspiring someone.
I think writers should be the same way. So many of us have something musical inside, whether it be with notes, or colors on paper, or words on a computer screen, but we doubt whether those personal things should be shared with the world. Who is watching? Who is listening? Who cares?
I wonder if that person in that big, beautiful, white house knew that I was even down there, that there was someone else enjoying their morning in a similar, yet different, way.
So next time you're busting through that impossible word count or fretting about sending your baby out into the world for the first time, remember this story as proof.
You shouldn't hide the music that's within you
because you never know who might be dancing to it way down at the bottom of the hill.
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