Always There

I grew up with a spinet piano in my house. My mother played a little and my older sister learned to play some as well, but not I. I did learn to play the flute starting when was I nine, and so I became roughly fluent in music’s written language, though I never learned any music theory, never knew what key I was in or what made a major or minor chord. Sometimes I’d sit at the piano and look at its 88 keys, knowing they were related to the notes I read on my flute sheet music, but knowing also you were meant to play some of the keys simultaneously. But which ones? It seemed impossible to know, and I remained afraid of touching it for fear I’d hit the wrong keys and the ghost of Beethoven might rise up and haunt my days.

By my early twenties I was hearing music in my head often enough that I wanted to see if I could transcribe these sounds onto an actual instrument. A flute wouldn’t do. I bought an inexpensive electronic keyboard, yet it remained as inscrutable as the piano in my childhood. I allowed myself to plunk around on it experimentally, but it all felt random and unmusical and wrong. This so frustrated me that I, a ferociously independent learner who avoided all how-to books, allowed myself to go down to my local music store and buy a small manual on the basics of music theory.

An hour after I’d brought it home, I understood octaves and intervals and chords and key signatures and root notes. It was so simple, really. The next day I started writing some music. I was amazed how magically unknowable I’d made music composition. And as I banged out my first tunes, I thought of my family’s spinet piano again, how it had always been there, and how my mother could play both piano and guitar and so would have surely been able to teach me the basics of chords and key signatures. Why hadn’t I just learned some theory? Why had I wasted those years not writing music when the tools to do so were under my nose every day?

It was no fun asking that question so I went back to the song I was writing. I’d only written half of it and was poking around looking for the end of the melody. I knew it was somewhere in those keys. Then, as it always does, I found the rest of the phrase. I knew I’d found it because it seemed like someone else had written it, as if it was the only way I could have ended the tune, as it had been there all along but I just didn’t know where to find it.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence.
You can find William at: williamkenower.com