Eric Tian

Some nights ago, I decided that I would not finish the day with my usual pastimes, but would sit down and listen to music. The piece that presented itself to me was a recording of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony on YouTube. And so it was decided. I boiled a cup of tea, changed into sweatpants, went to the toilet, put my phone away, and began to listen.

Halfway through the first movement it struck me how similar music is to reading. In each you realise that any exceptional score or book has moments of both elation and horror. They are not “happy”. And as you feel yourself carried across with the tide, you begin to lose your sense of footing, until you are in that strange place between your world and the artist’s you are beholding yourself to, floating in some dreamlike chasm. You remain there experiencing a journey, one unique to yourself. For all musicians in one symphony have the same score, and all copies of one book contain the same words, but no musician performs a melody the same way, and no reader is changed the same as another.

The role of the writer and composer is to present a tapestry, a story for the world; the role of the reader and musician is to take this tapestry and let it mould them into something greater.

Writers are composers, just as readers are musicians.

From Margaret Atwood:

“Books are frozen voices, in the same way that musical scores are frozen music. The score is a way of transmitting the music to someone who can play it, releasing it into the air where it can once more be heard. And the black alphabet marks on the page represent words that were once spoken, if only in the writer’s head. They lie there inert until a reader comes along and transforms the letters into living sounds. The reader is the musician of the book: each reader may read the same text, just as each violinist plays the same piece, but each interpretation is different.”

Nearly 100 years ago, Canadian soldier and poet John McCrae sat in the back of an ambulance and began to write. His close friend Alexis Helmer had just been killed in the Second Battle of Ypres. As he was performing the burial service, John noticed how poppies quickly grew around those who had died. The next day, he scribbled down a poem, intermittently glancing over at his friend’s grave. However, he not happy with his work and discarded it, until a fellow member of his unit recovered the piece of paper and insisted him to publish. Today, “In Flanders Fields” is one of the most recognised and beloved war poems of all time.

The poem is written from the eyes of the dead. It gives voice to the fallen soldiers’ sacrifice and their final orders to the living. It lies at the the transition of death and life; it is a testament of courage, love, and great hope.

 In Flanders Fields
    In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
         Between the crosses, row on row,
       That mark our place; and in the sky
       The larks, still bravely singing, fly
    Scarce heard amid the guns below.

    We are the dead. Short days ago
    We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
       Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
                              In Flanders fields

    Take up our quarrel with the foe:
    To you from failing hands we throw
       The torch; be yours to hold it high.
       If ye break faith with us who die
    We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
                                In Flanders fields.

A short story.

It took place at midnight, on the field across the bank.
        My acquaintance stepped out of the boat, restlessly grinding his teeth. He clutched his pistol by his side.
        On the other side of the field, I saw his enemy, and his second beside him. I recognised their faces: they were decent people from the town – I had eaten and spoken with them before – and then realised that we were the wrongdoers on this night.
        I met with his second in the middle.
        “What is this all about, friend?” I said.
        “For honour,” he replied solemnly.
        “Damn this honour,” I said, but he was already walking away.
        The duellists faced each other, with pistols primed. We stood in a clearing among willow trees and a full moon stood witness to the affair.
        Then the most unlikely thing happened. The man whose second I was, suddenly cried out. He pointed to something in the enemy’s hand. I looked and there I saw a golden apple, glimmering in the light. He held it in the palm of his left hand. His pistol still hung from his waist.
        My acquaintance was mesmerised with the object. He began to shake, then splutter, then began gibbering nonsense. The golden apple had poisoned his mind. I said:
        “For God’s sake, it’s only an apple.”
        “It’s beautiful,” he sobbed. “Look at it!”
        “Get a hold of yourself.”
        I looked at the golden apple again. It shone dimly under the moonlight but I couldn’t see the point. It was hardly different to an ordinary apple.
        His enemy stood staring at us while my acquaintance fell apart before my eyes. He could not look away from the apple and collapsed onto his knees. His pistol hit the ground with a thud.
        I looked away in disgust. I never wanted this damn duel anyway. Nobody told me what its cause had been and I didn’t care anyway. I was roped into it by honour, friendship and favours I owed. Damn honour, and damn the favours that people owe. They lead people down into hell.
        There was nothing anybody could do. With every passing hour, he became less human, and more of a mess. But still he kept his eyes on the golden apple.
        Dawn broke. Still, his enemy stood, holding out the terrible object, while his second observed. My acquaintance stopped responding to questions and demands long ago. He hadn’t spoken in hours.
        Eventually the doctor arrived in his coach and asked what had happened. He had expected a winner and a loser, the loser presumed to have been killed. I pointed to the two men and said:
        “He has lost his mind at that golden apple.”
        The doctor looked over.
        “But it is just an apple.” I shook my head.
        The doctor took out his tools and examined my acquaintance, still crumbled on the grass. After a moment, it was decided that he needed to go to hospital. We had to take the coach, the long way to the town. As we pulled away, leaving our boat behind, the enemy still remained, holding the golden apple. He stood as still as a statue under the morning light. I never saw him again.
        My acquaintance never recovered. We took him to hospital, where the hallucinations began. Then his madness. The doctors diagnosed him with a stroke. High blood pressure, they said. Terrible in stressful situations.
        I visited him often, then less over time. Whenever I visited, he would always ask me about the golden apple. I told him I hadn’t seen it again, but he refused to accept this and would become angry. I began to be more evasive in my answers. Eventually I stopped visiting him altogether. His instability was beginning to infect me. It doesn’t take much, does it, to break a man. Especially if, in a clearing, at midnight, under a moonlight sky, a mind cannot unfix itself from a distraction.

An excerpt from Someday Is Today by Matthew Dicks:

“I’ve written eleven books and published nine over the past dozen years because I don’t wait for the right moment to write. I don’t waste time on preciousness, pretentiousness, and perfection.

Yes, it’s true that in the summers, when I’m not teaching, I have much more time to dedicate to writing, but I don’t wait for July and August to get to work. I write all year long. I write in the early- morning hours before my kids tumble down the stairs. I write at lunchtime if I don’t have any papers to correct or lessons to plan.

I’m actually writing this very sentence on a Friday during my lunch break. I write while waiting for the water to boil for spaghetti. I write while the mechanic changes my oil at Jiffy Lube. I write in the first few minutes of a meeting that has failed to start on time.

Are these ideal times to write? Of course not. But unless you’re blessed with a patron who is willing to support your every earthly desire, you need to make the time to write. Even if blessed with a patron, I still might be writing in these cracks of my life. I’m filled with stories and the desire to share as many of them with the world as possible. Why restrict my creative flow to midmornings? Minutes matter. Every single one of them matters.

The problem is that so many of us discount the value of minutes and overestimate the value of an hour or a day or a weekend. We dither away our minutes as if they were useless, assuming that creativity can only happen in increments of an hour or a day or more. What a bunch of hooey.

The one commodity that we all share in equal amounts is time: 1,440 minutes — 86,400 seconds — per day.

I want you to stop thinking about the length of a day in terms of hours and start thinking in terms of minutes. Minutes matter.”

“Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, all in the thousand, small, uncaring ways.” – Stephen Vincent Benét.