A Window of Opportunity

I am sad to say that I do not remember the title of the piece.

Nor do I remember the characters’ names, or any minute details of the story.

But I distinctly remember it as one of my first writing pieces that I relished every moment researching and writing it, and it went a long way in the formation of the writer I am today.

It is most unfortunate that the story I am writing about today has been lost. Sometime in my young adulthood, due to embarrassment–or perhaps disappointment that it had not earned the accolades of others—I threw it away, and the floppy disk, dinosaur hardware computer, or word processor it was saved on, has long ago vacated this earthly plane.

The story was simply as follows. A violin student in Leningrad Soviet-era Russia feels oppressed on every side to conform to something he is not. He is pressured to play music he hates. That which used to give him his greatest joy–playing the violin–has turned hollow and meaningless to him. He constantly is under watch by those controlling him, and he has no freedom to go where he wants or do what he enjoys. He is living a lie.

That is until he discovers the window in his apartment that would provide the escape he needs to be truly free.

For this story, I was inspired by Animal Farm, one of the few classics I read in high school. The story of Prokofiev and his relationship with Stalin intrigued me, and I also researched the history of the St Petersburg Conservatory vs. the Moscow Conservatory.

Brainstorming, and the research that goes hand-in-hand with it, is still my favorite part of the writing process. Nothing sets my soul on fire like diving into a new topic that I’m unfamiliar with. History, cultural events, and geographical locations are usually the catalyst that spurs on my imagination.

For instance, the short story I wrote the previous year in school was largely inspired by the movie How Green Was My Valley and my interest in my Welsh ancestral history. Again, that story is lost to my rash actions as an embarrassed young adult, but this planted the seed of digging deep into a subject and learning everything there is about it.

And the inspiration for my oppressed violinist story?

I should mention I was raised in something of a cult.

By my senior year of high school, suicide ideation was my constant friend who shadowed everything I did. History class regales of Communist Russia did not seem all that different from the life I lived.

I spent every waking moment practicing, driving to practice, performing in practice recitals, driving to competitions,taking theory class at my instructor’s house in addition to lessons, etc. (My instrument of my parents’ choice being piano, and then mallet percussion in symphonic band.) Unlike the protagonist of my story, however, music was a refuge from the powerlessness I felt in every other area of life. Music is still a joy that heralds me through dark times, as it did back then.

Perhaps I thought the adults in my life might be concerned about the story I wrote. I hoped they would notice how miserable I was, having every moment dictated to me, having to squelch my true self deep down inside. If my English teacher noticed, he said nothing. I received a good grade for my story, but it was not one of the shiny golden ones chosen to be read aloud for the class. Most of those chosen were comedic, all valued for the fleeting laughs they provided. All my stories then were filled with gravitas and seriousness, as even now, most of my stories are dark and delve into the deeper parts of human nature.

As for my parents, everything I have ever written might as well be Fifty Shades of Grey to their sensibilities. Once, as that same angry, hurt teenager, I shared a couple of poems with my mom that strongly hinted of suicide ideation. I was told, “Knock it off” with little concern to my mental anguish, so I have not shared anything with them since.

Today, I do dabble in comedy occasionally. I have an The Office meets The Library TV pilot in the works. But serious, heartbreaking material will always be at my core. I’m a bore at a wedding, but at a funeral, I will be your most ardent mourner and a compassionate shoulder to cry on.

And regarding cults, I still have a few stories I want to share about them too.