I am still working on revising the opening of Reverie, but this is what I have so far. I like it much better, but it still has a way to go until I feel that it’s right, but I am pretty certain getting closer to my vision.
Another wadded up piece of paper went flying across the room. I was starting to amass a pile of across the living room floor. The sun was starting to rise, I had already been up for a couple of hours. I was, as usual, sitting at the piano with cup of coffee. Starting to doubt if I would ever finish the simple piece of music I had been composing for the past year. My inspiration was lacking and I doubting my decision of quitting my teaching job to concentrate on music. I couldn’t focus on the task at hand, my mind kept wandering back to happier times. I stared out across the piano through the wall of windows overlooking the pond watching the wind whip through the trees and the rain hit the glass, I reminisced over the events that led me to building this woodland sanctuary I had lived in for the past few years.
Ana would have never allowed us to live here. It was too rural. No one of consequence would have known she existed. There were no cocktail parties, no one to impress. The trees and the quietness would have unnerved her. She would have jumped at the owls hooting. I, on the other hand, loved it, though back then I probably would have scoffed at the idea of moving here too. Most people in the small town ten miles north of my house had no idea who I was other than some guy from Boston with money. There was no need to pretend to like people, no need to hide my colored past. The folks around here were genuinely nice, although I did not have too much contact with them in fear of judgment. I only ventured into town when I needed to get supplies or on the rear occasion felt the need to be near other people. I preferred the solidarity of my home and my music.
My home was built-in the middle of five hundred acres of woods, most of which I probably still hadn’t seen. If didn’t know where you were going you would never find it. The road was a seldom traveled old dirt road and drive was nearly impossible to find in the dark. The first few times I had David and Olivia over, they missed the drive, so I put a reflector up at the entrance. I’ve seen field paths that looked more traveled, even so I still installed a security gate about a hundred feet down the drive to keep people away. The driveway is about a mile possibly a mile and half of winding around trees and ponds. About a quarter-mile down the drive the trees open up to small meadow with a path at the far edge that meanders it’s way to one of the four ponds on the property. I like walking there for peace and quiet when I can’t possible work any longer.
Edmund my closest friend and architect helped me design the perfect sanctuary so I could escape my past in Boston. The house blended in with the woods with its cedar siding and its elevated first floor. Edmund was so used to designing huge mansions for people who like to show off how much money they made a year. He was excited to work on something that would blend into the surroundings.
Around five thirty in the evening I was at a point that I had stop working on the piece before I threw the whole thing in the trash. At times I wasn’t sure why I even continued writing new pieces; I had stopped performing my own work right after Ana had been attacked. I figured I might eventually return to performing my work again one day. I had contemplated going back to performing, but I was worried I just didn’t have what it too any more.
I sighed, stacked the papers I had been writing on and picked up all the ones I had thrown. Since I had such horrible writer’s block it was time to do something else. I thought it would be nice to go outside to the patio overlooking the pond and read a book. I went to the study to look for a good book, but realized nothing was catching my interest. I guess it was time for a trip into town to the local bookstore, Stanford’s Books.