The Gods can now rest quietly, for their Hercules has completed his labor. After three days of continuous work and effort, I have managed to compose a piece of music even greater than my 15th guitar etude. This composition—my first one which isn’t an etude—is far and away the best thing I have had the pleasure of composing. As the title would suggest, this is not a solo work, but a duo for two instruments (violin and guitar). I’ve been fortunate enough to compose 16 etudes for each. The violin was the first instrument I composed for. The reason being that I wanted to master first the most important instrument where string quartets (my favorite type of music) are concerned.

(I should say, too, that the string quartet as a genre of classical music is what got me interested in composing music in the first place: I wanted to learn how to compose in order to one day write a string quartet; were it not for them as a genre, I would’ve only been interested in classical music as a passive listener; but having been deeply moved by so many great ones written—I have the quartets of Haydn, Boccherini, Beethoven, and Mozart in mind—I felt it a duty of mine to devote my time and genius to this great art we call music, all in the hopes of one day being able to add my name among those listed as having written some enjoyable, perhaps even life-changing, quartets.)

The guitar was the second instrument I composed for, and this was because I found nobody had composed string quartets with guitars as accompaniments. Though it be plucked rather than strung with a bow, it still plays via strings, and I think this reason enough to show it some love, and have it replace (occasionally, anyway) the viola in the bass. Someone must expand the quartet repertoire, and I’m just the one crazy enough to believe that what I attempt in music will actually be innovative.

This work was first conceived as a consequence of me having lost to a good friend of mine in a game of five questions. We have a thing going where whoever loses has to do what the other person requests. We played this particular game of five questions maybe a week after I first started composing, and, having told her that I found a new intellectual passion (music), she—ever the diligent observer—thought it would be fun to have me compose something for her. I agreed instantly, but told her I hadn’t the skill yet to produce something which she would enjoy, but within a month’s time, perhaps, I would have enough compositions under my belt to do something worthy of her.

She agreed, but with some annoyance, for she’s very impatient and hates to wait; she tried to convince me that I should compose something quickly anyway, for whatever I made would be enjoyed by her; and while these words were very kind and encouraging to hear, I couldn’t bear the thought of composing something horrible for her, and insisted that she wait at least a month until I was at least competent in putting notes to a stave. In retrospect, this was extremely wise of me, for when she had first asked me, I hadn’t yet mastered rhythm, and barely knew the amount of time each note took up in a measure, to say nothing of how all this was complicated by my choice of tempo.

Here we are now, though, a little over a month later, having composed 32 works prior to this one, and having made myself acquainted with nearly every aspect of composition I would want to be—whether it be in harmony, melody, rhythm, use of ornamentations or articulations, structure, etc. I’m far from proficient in any one thing, but for having composed for less than two months thus far, I would say my grasp on all these things is quite good, and improving with each new composition.

I would now like to discuss the particulars of this work, but before I do that, please allow a brief aside where I attempt to explain the origin of my indefatigable work ethic, and how it relates to my intellectual and artistic endeavors more generally.

As is so often the case with me, I try to outdo myself in every way possible when my passions are concerned. (In this context here, I refer to music.) I’m never satisfied with a creation of mine unless I can say with certainty that it is, in at least one aspect, superior to my previous work. I’ve never been able to rest on my laurels, no matter how stupendous the work is that I create: partly because of my constant dissatisfaction with all I make, and (more crucially) partly because I know just how much work and effort it took me to create such a work.

Very few things in my life have come easy, and, in truth, most that I have obtained—if I have anything at all—was only through continuous effort and diligence on my part. As a result of my nonexistent aptitude in any artistic or intellectual field (despite loving these things immensely), I have always had to give each interest of mine in these areas more time than most people could bother putting in.

I’ve always felt myself behind in some way, like the average person was naturally better than me at everything; this, I suspect, stems from my childhood: a rather slow learner in elementary school, matched with a strong aversion to anything difficult—combined with a serious introversion—all came together to make me convince myself that I was incapable of anything, no matter how hard I worked. I later found out through experience that this was not true, but once one so young goes through that, it’s almost impossible to overcome that insecurity for good. As a result, I still carry some of that sense of futility in me, even when I’ve proven to my own satisfaction that I am, in fact, a rather capable person. It is here that the desire to always outdo myself was first born.

Precisely because I feel I have to work that much harder than everybody else, I give myself no rest when it comes to working on something I’m deeply passionate about. This consistency in laboring for more hours than seems reasonable formed into a habit for me over time, and through it, I have been given many opportunities to work ceaselessly into the night, slowly developing my skills, and honing them until they were completely my own. This is where I shine, to tell the truth, for where I lack in natural ability, I make up for in passion and diligence. I have an almost superhuman tolerance for work, so long as what I’m working on is something I love.

But what exactly am I getting at here? I’m essentially saying that I work as hard as I do on account of my inability to feel content with my own abilities in creating. I’m such a passionate lover of intellectual things (again, here I refer to music and writing) that I want to engage with these passions of mine with as little effort as possible, while maximizing the amount of enjoyment I receive while working on them. I essentially want a quasi-permanent flow state I can enter the instant I set my mind on creating in these artistic areas. I want writing and composing music to be as easy as breathing personally. I’ve been lucky enough to achieve this level of skill in writing, and now I want the same in composing music.

I’m well aware of just how much effort is required, but knowing this does not calm my ambition. I want the process to be expedited. I want to bypass all the initial hurdles that one is faced with when first desiring to accomplish something of note in their area of love. Having already gone through the long and arduous process of mastering writing (finding my own voice and being able to express myself beautifully on any topic my mind considers), you would think that experience would allow me to more quickly obtain what I desire in music, but this couldn’t be further from the truth.

The sad truth is this: there is no shortcut to mastery; even if you’re capable of understanding what must be done, that in no way allows you to obtain what you desire any quicker—the reason being that mastery does not come from comprehending something in the abstract, but rather requires you to continuously put it into concrete use until it becomes almost instinctive; this only occurs, however, when the nervous system itself becomes adapted to the artistic demands which you make on it. You must bear the strain of deliberate, laborious, painful creation before all of it comes of its own accord—or rather, comes when you demand it to, for your nervous system by then is quite at ease with what you’re requiring it to do.

Now, just how long this takes varies from person to person, but the truth of it is completely settled. Again, for this has to be stressed, there’s no way around the actual (concrete) work that is required of you if you wish to perform a thing with both speed and ease, as well as enjoyment (for that should be the byproduct of this union at the end of it all). It would be nice if we could do precisely what we see in our heads when imagining how the working process will go for us, but this is seldom, if ever, the case, for not everyone has the gift of ready inspiration, and certainly not everyone has the consistency necessary to make this a reality for themselves.

It takes a fervent, unwavering passion, tethered with a desire for practically nothing else, if one is to turn their love into something they can love without difficulty—which, in the context of art, is really to say to create without much strain or hesitation, to make it seem effortless, as easy as breathing. It is only after recognizing this fact that one can grit their teeth with less discouragement, and endure the painful hours, days, months, and even years in some cases, of creating art, or composing music, or writing prose, which we as the creators aren’t entirely happy with.

The rough bump which we as artists and creators must all get over before we can really start producing things of worth is the most challenging obstacle we have to face; but once it is overcome, and we find ourselves at the top of that bump after much labor, we can look down from it proud, knowing that we achieved a proficiency in what we love—a thing few can claim, and a thing fewer can truly appreciate. With that said, let me now return to the composition proper.

As said earlier, it was composed in a span of three days, and was the most challenging composition I’ve attempted. What made it so difficult wasn’t its scope or depth (for I faced something similar already when composing my 15th guitar etude), but was the constant doubt which I had to contend with within myself. Every note penned in this composition was a struggle, for at every turn did I find myself doubting whether that’s actually what I meant to put down or not. I had to rearrange whole movements, as well as add dozens of measures, just to satisfy myself with both the length and structure of this composition. At times the thought of finishing it felt unbearable, and the task seemed insurmountable, but I persevered, and have my 32 prior compositions to thank for my endurance in this regard.

Though I doubt every note I pen, I ultimately continue with the composition in faith, believing in myself enough to put down what comes to me from the heart, and leaving the rest not to chance, but to the editing process, which is where all my errors immediately come before me—and I then have the hard task of correcting every note by ear (which sometimes takes hours), all to, at last, have the finished score before my eyes, and where every note rings out from it with divine harmony, at least to my ears. Let me now touch on each movement and what they represent. (Before I do though, I should preface that by saying that this work is essentially a narrative where I tell the history of my friendship with the girl who requested it in the first place.)

The work is made up of three movements; the first, however, combines two tempos (Adagio - Allegro) in keeping with late classical structure—where a short, slow movement would act as a prelude to a much longer, faster movement right afterwards, always preceded by a medial caesura. The Adagio is written in F minor, intending to represent a deep sadness and longing for someone, anyone. Its opening measure is something I’m very proud of, and I carry the full weight of its sorrowful theme all the way until the Allegro, 41 measures later.

After ending the Adagio with a rather charming whole-note chord played in pizzicato for the violin, alongside a nice arpeggiated chord from the guitar, the Allegro comes thundering in with a chord from the guitar, followed by a similar one from the violin. The tempo plays so fast, one hardly has time to comprehend what’s going on before I bury them in a torrent of half, quarter, and eighth notes. The vigor with which the first measure of the Allegro plays out is followed all the way until the next movement.

Speaking of which, the next movement is a Largo, and I have to say, it’s probably the single greatest piece of music I’ve ever written. The whole movement is beautifully composed, if I do say so myself, for I give each instrument its time to shine through a clever use of pauses and variations in the rhythm—done through alternating between quarter, eighth, and sixteenth notes. It was written in A major, which is associated with joy and optimism; and despite its slow tempo, the notes are more than enough to convey joy and happiness. This movement was supposed to represent the joy I felt after having talked and getting to know this girl—she who would go on to become my good friend. There’s an obvious lightness and pleasantness to the whole movement.

Lastly, we have the third movement, written in B-flat major in an Andantino tempo. This movement, like the previous ones, is supposed to represent joy, but its emphasis is on joy rather than on pleasure itself, which the previous movements mix together—for the first movement (Allegro) is pleasure found from our first encounter, while the pleasure in the second movement (Largo) is the joy of having had the good fortune of encountering the person in the first place (it’s the coming-to-terms with such a miracle, if you will—I don’t know how to put it any other way).

This movement is by far the most bizarre of the three—while also being the most difficult and ambitious piece of music I’ve ever composed. It starts out normal enough in a sonata-like form, but after playing through the first 36 measures, I wrote the remaining 56 in counterpoint for BOTH instruments, which meant I had to effectively balance the harmony between four separate voices. Now you have an idea of why I said this was the most difficult and ambitious piece of music I’ve ever composed. I had to revise most of those 56 measures, in fact, for I used too many eighth and sixteenth notes when I should’ve relied more on half and quarter notes.

I found that the more voices you add, the more you have to rely on notes with a longer duration in the measure in order for the harmony to still be heard, and not overlap into total dissonance—which is what I did the first time I composed it. Now, having gone through that experience in extreme counterpoint, I can say I’m an even greater master in the method than I was prior to undertaking such an ambitious task. I should warn the listener, however, that such a cacophony of sound is not to everyone’s taste, even if the whole of it be harmonious. It took even my ears—trained on Bach’s The Art of Fugue—to get used to the overwhelming force four notes at once tend to have on the ears. I must confess, the last three minutes of the piece are not an easy listen, but should you endure the initial shock, you may find something interesting in it upon a second, third, or even fourth listen.

With all this now written, I hope I have given a sufficient preface to what is, without doubt, the greatest composition I have composed so far. To those readers who actually managed to get to the end of this verbose exposition, I give you many thanks. You have my sincerest appreciation, and I hope it was as enjoyable for you to read as my composition was to listen to.

Thanks again, everyone, and goodbye.

———

Written in multiple keys, three movements (Adagio - Allegro, Largo, Andantino tempos), 303 measures.

It is a mistake to think that the practice of my art has become easy to me. I assure you, dear friend, no one has given so much care to the study of composition as I. There is scarcely a famous master in music whose works I have not frequently and diligently studied. —Mozart.

As is so common with coming off of a great success, whatever we do afterwards never lives up to what came before, and this composition is no different in that respect. I suppose this was bound to happen, though, for whatever was to follow my 15th guitar etude would necessarily fall short in terms of scope, depth, and comprehensiveness. Be that as it may, this composition is still significant in some respects, and I think those are interesting in themselves and worth giving some attention to.

In the first place, upon completing this composition (my 32nd overall), I officially passed 100 pages of sheet music written. The exact number is 101, and this I couldn’t be more impressed and happy with. Despite composing for less than two months so far, I’ve already written enough music to require multiple paperclips to keep all the scores together. My prolific output is a product of two things primarily: passion and a desire to improve. Passion is what got me started, and my desire to improve—in order to eventually write good music, uniquely in my own style—is what compels me to keep going.

I also have an acute awareness of just how short time is, and just how long art can be; it is, then, the duty of the composer, or artist, or writer, or anyone in any artistic field, quite frankly, to use whatever time they have to devote themselves entirely and singularly to their passion.

We must give in to what we love in order to take in more of its grandeur, and in doing so come to appreciate it better, as well as being able to employ our skills in that art more effectively and powerfully. That is the only way to improve: we must first fall in love, and after doing so force ourselves to overcome every difficulty we are presented with when loving, in order to become one with our art, and in this union truly produce works of breathtaking quality. Once this is achieved, we can say that our love is without labor, thus making everything we do afterwards in it true to our heart—after which we find ourselves in total command of our powers in the art, and from there can produce whatever we want. This is the end goal of art as I understand it, and this is what we must all strive for.

Though I cannot say at present I’m where I want to be with respect to composition, I’m happy to have done as much as I have so far—even if most of my efforts (I think, anyway) are without true merit or worth. I know I will get where I want to, though, with respect to composition. It just requires patience and consistency on my part. No art is born in man. We may have aptitudes and proclivities which allow us to advance faster than others, but all this is relative with respect to who we compare ourselves to, and (it should be added) irrelevant when time is considered—for a youth who makes great strides in their interest will soon enough be equaled, and perhaps even surpassed, should they rely too heavily on their natural talent, and fail to keep up with those who work much harder and put in more hours than they do over time.

To return to the composition, however, the second aspect in which it is interesting is found in its rather bizarre use of repeat bars. Though I started the composition yesterday, I fell asleep before I could edit it fully. Upon waking up, I did not immediately go to finish what I started, but rather devoted some two hours to the study of sonata form before returning to it—and hence my use of the repeat bar. I was essentially experimenting with the composition, trying to figure out if what I originally wrote could be turned into a simple binary (AB) sonata.

What I finally hit upon wasn’t precisely a sonata, but rather a strange hybrid of free development and a few repeated measures—deliberately constructed so that the end of one measure nicely blended into the measure it was to repeat from. A sonata requires you to repeat the exposition—first section (A theme)—before introducing the development and recapitulation—second section (B theme)—usually in a new key.

This composition, however, has no real coherent theme; nor did I repeat the first section from the start; and I can’t tell whether I modulated to a new key or not until I got to the second theme—which is actually the third interesting aspect of this composition: the fact that I changed the initial tempo of allegro to vivace right at the start of the second theme. Speaking of which, I’m happy to say the second theme is in binary form, but I can’t speak to the merits of the measures with any confidence.

The fourth and final interesting thing about this composition is that it was the first time I wrote using counterpoint mid-measure. Prior to this, my use of counterpoint was either done from the start to the end of the composition, or introduced at the start of a new movement (never in the middle of one). With this composition being an experimental sonata, however, there was no second movement; rather, what I did was introduce the second voice at the start of the 54th measure, preceded quite ingeniously by an extended half-note—which played for the whole measure given the piece was written in 3/4 time. I then composed using counterpoint until the last two measures which, being customary at this point, were extended half-note chords, one with a single line tremolo, and the other being an arpeggio.

Overall, this composition was quite interesting to compose. Again, it was bound to fall short of my expectations considering what I composed previously, but in it I played with a few ideas that were in the back of my mind—primarily regarding sonata form and repeat bars—that were giving me no rest, and so I’m happy to have finally scratched that compositional itch. I suspect many of my compositions to follow it will be just as trite and unimportant in the grand scheme of things; simply another composition composed because the composer had nothing better to do. I feel there’s a certain lack of depth or feeling in it, and a lot of work still has to be done by me before I can compose with any real feeling or elegance.

Sure, the counterpoint in it (at least in some measures) is quite good, and it can be argued that my transition to the second theme with a new tempo was executed properly, but I can’t find much to value in it musically. At this point, it seems like all my compositions are nothing more than exercises done for the sake of getting to where I want to go; presently, I feel like all my notes are mere scribbles composed for the sake of composition; I labor now in order that all this will become like second nature to me, and be done with actual charm, elegance, melody, structure, and coherence.

As I’ve said in a previous addendum to one of my compositions, my journey in composing music will likely be very similar to my journey in writing. There was a time in late 2024 when my entire life revolved around being able to write elegantly, truthfully, in a style my own—containing elegance, beauty, and coherence. It wasn’t until April of this year, however, that I finally found my true voice as a writer; and this has allowed me to write very prolifically without the slightest hesitation or doubt in my mind about whatever I write the instant I do so. My goal, as hinted at earlier, is essentially to achieve this same level of quality, confidence, and consistency, but in composition.

Mozart, when describing how he composes, famously said, “I write as a sow [female pig] piddles [pisses].” I laugh every time I bring that quote to mind, for I could just imagine Mozart sitting down at his desk and composing the most miraculous music ever heard as if it were just another day for him—cranking out measure after measure of pure gold, again, with little forethought given to any of it. When it comes to writing, I (at present, at least) am able to do the same, though, maybe not with as much genius or grace as Mozart—but certainly the speed and consistency is there. Now that I think about it, though, maybe comparing my abilities in writing to Mozart’s abilities in composing is very presumptuous on my part. So be it, though; confidence has to make its entrance somewhere if the individual is to feel themselves capable of doing anything they can be proud of in the end.

Our artistic worth is proportional to how much work we’ve put into mastering our craft. Everything else is merely an aside when compared to the actual process of deliberate effort. That is the only way to improve, and that is what I seek to do in composition. I must continue to compose (trite and worthless) music that will, in all likelihood, be heard by only a handful of close friends, family, and fans of mine before I can actually begin to compose music that will have a lasting impact, and leave a very agreeable impression on all who listen to it.

How one is to achieve the fame of a Mozart, Beethoven, or Haydn today is honestly irrelevant. The main thing is to simply compose. Compose, compose, compose! That is the surest way to overcome any doubt or hesitation you may feel at the prospect of composing; and only through that mentality can you begin to improve. There is no way around the simple fact that you must first work very hard before all that hard work allows you to work very easily. The more you do a thing, the better you become at it. It is this principle which I followed when it came to writing—and which has allowed me to write with ease on any topic with an extremely high quality and clear authorial voice; I intend to do the same with music. I can! I must! It will be! Amen!

With that said, I hope whoever has read this to the end has enjoyed my exposition, as well as my composition.

———

Written in F major, 3/4 time, Allegro and Vivace tempos, 114 measures.

Behold! This composition before you—my longest and greatest (so far), no doubt—is the culmination of two days’ continuous effort. No pains were spared in its creation, and it is a work I look upon proudly, for having considered it in full, and taking into account just how much labor went into crafting each measure, I can say with confidence that it stands far above all the rest.

The idea for it was conceived in the early morning hours of the 22nd, and I managed to edit the final note of it some 20 minutes past two in the morning of the 24th. Within those two days, I brought down upon it the full weight of my musical genius (small though it may be at present), and in doing so attempted to use every trick and technique I was familiar with in order to take it from some meretricious exercise to a truly wonderful etude—a true study; an interesting, in-depth exploration of harmony, melody, rhythm, and pitch. In short, I tried to make it a Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art).

This was by no means an easy thing to achieve. Whenever a composer sits down to begin their daily task of putting notes to paper, they are presented with an empty stave, and as such are always confronted by an infinity which they must leap into regardless of whether they feel ready or not, and try their best to fill that infinite void with a few interesting motives and scales. There is always some slight hesitation when beginning a composition, for, truly, the variety of ways in which a composer can set any melodic idea down is nearly infinite. That is, in fact, what makes music composition so challenging.

Just like in writing, a composer may have some idea of what they wish to write down, but the thought of developing it further often paralyzes them, for they could take it anywhere they wish, and as such, find themselves incapable of venturing into the infinity of the decision—I suspect mostly out of fear of writing something bad, or writing something down they will either have to scrap completely or rework with more effort than it took to come up with the idea in the first place. This is forever to be a challenge for composers, even the greatest among them, for what we compose often comes through either inspiration or deliberate experimentation with different combinations of notes and tempos. We either receive what we want on command, or must cull our ideas from our heads deliberately and with extraordinary labor.

In my experience so far composing as much as I have already, I can say that I fall squarely into the latter category. My musical ideas, like my literary ones, seldom come on their own accord, and as such, everything I manage to accomplish in these artistic mediums is largely done without the aid of inspiration; they are all cut and configured deliberately by me, requiring immense contemplation in their initial conception, incredible effort in their construction (that is, the actual work of composing/writing them), and tireless editing and reworking after they are done.

The life of an artist is not for the faint of heart; and as such, anyone who has devoted even a small amount of their time to the creation of something beautiful has my full respect and admiration. I may not find anything in a work, but I can respect the effort it took to create—and in that, we artists, writers, composers, wanderers, and free spirits are all alike. Art is our salvation; the light by which we turn our gaze, in order for its brightness to illuminate our world, thus making it seem like a thing worthy of our endurance and effort. What would life be without art? Nothing but a pitiless task of indifference, survival, and reproduction.

I can think of no fate worse for mankind than a world largely inhabited by cultural cretins and miscreants who have forgotten where they come from, and couldn’t care less about the traditions of the past which they all quite literally walk upon.

This outright dismissal of culture is only an indication of how far we as a species have fallen; though there has never been a golden age on earth, there was a time in which the average citizen was more culturally aware—such a thing seems almost incomprehensible today, for most are too busy scrolling their future away, forgetting that what sustains life and makes it a thing worthy of the human spirit is our capacity to transcend our material reality, and reach the heights of sublimity which only a truly cultivated intellect is able to obtain and appreciate.

Everything intellectual today is really false in an absolute sense, for it can hardly be called intellectual at all; it does not value the upbuilding of the intellect, but rather seeks to stuff it full with random facts and jargon for the sake of a career. It never reaches beyond, which is to say, to uplift the spirit of mankind—to touch the abstract intellect with a concrete creation born out of an edifying abstraction, the epiphany of which is the entire point of art as I understand it.

I am of the belief, by the way, that such epiphanies can be made commonplace, but it requires an incredible amount of focus and attention which most people today either do not possess the interest or time for, or are so ignorant they can’t even conceive of such a thing in their empty, shallow, shrunken, ignorant minds. Woe upon all of us for letting it get to this. Woe upon everyone! Woe to art! Woe to humanity! There is little sense in singing odes to joy in such times as now. It is best we let the spirit of Beethoven survive individually for those capable of carrying his will of fire, rather than attempt to generalize it to all peoples, most of whom have heard the great master, but cannot name him.

But back to the topic at hand, our problem today is that most are so cut off from their own intellect, they’re completely incapable of grasping something which demands more than three seconds of attention to comprehend.

We do not value culture because culture is an abstraction, and thus, something which has no meaning to the majority—whose minds have been reared on valuing material things above all else that they’re unable to see the value in anything that is purely derived from the mind; as if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re so concerned with the material aspects of the world, that they organize their entire lives (if they’re smart enough to even do such a thing) around the idea of escaping the material through the material; they’re courting the very thing that they’re trying to escape from, and as such will forever find themselves down this spiral of work and effort in the material realm, totally forgetting that the means of their salvation already lies within them, so long as they take the chance to think for themselves for once in their lives, and develop whatever they can intellectually—in doing so finding just how meaningless and empty such worldly pursuits are.

They’ll always be blind to this truth, however, so long as the culture and material conditions around them force their hands and minds to labor on behalf of their survival—with very little to show for it afterwards, I should add—and as such forgetting their mental cultivation completely, making their brain rigid, and thus only able to function within a very limited set of situations. Such is the state of things, and sadly, it shall not change until those in control are slowly replaced by those who are more open-minded, intellectually engaged, and interested in restoring culture to a time in which the sole concern wasn’t material, or financial, or economic, but rather strictly abstract, creative, artistic, manageable—not completely against us at every turn, making us despair of life rather than encouraged and emboldened by it. We artists at present, however, must seize fate by the throat, and not let go until we have made it our own. Art demands that we do not stand still, but rather ceaselessly move about, constantly striving to overcome, and advance what we have put forth previously.

To live is to always be at odds with the world if what you live for is against the current cultural norms. As I hope I’ve made clear, I do not wish to be a part of this current culture, for it is against all things intellectual, and as such is a thing to be totally vanquished the instant the upper hand is gained on it. Otherwise, everything is done for, and nothing good deserves to come of mankind but a gradual decline into barbarism and absurdity, the likes of which have not been seen by man since the Paleolithic.

I think I’ve rambled long enough about art and culture, however, and now wish to touch briefly on the composition specifically.

As already said, it was conceived on the 22nd of this month and finished two days later. The idea for it actually came to me when I was writing a rather long text to a very dear friend of mine. I hadn’t heard from her in so long—for she is a very hard worker, busy with school and whatnot—, and as such I wanted to compose something for her, in order to give her something to remember me by when she hasn’t the time to reply to my verbose messages, but still wishes to keep me in her mind.

This was the first composition in which I deliberately planned the movements. Prior to this, everything I wrote was totally vibes-based—even my more mature works, like my 15th violin etude, were composed in the moment, and had no forethought given to them in terms of what order the movements would be in (if the work was to even contain more than one movement), what the tempo should be, what time and key signature I should use, etc. Nothing of the kind was ever considered important enough for me to give it such consideration.

This, I find, is actually quite useful when starting out in composition, for it allows you the confidence to venture in waters that are completely foreign to you at first; thus allowing you to compose without as much fear as you would normally feel when you consider such things as the tempo, time, key, etc., as things to be deeply pondered—when, in truth, they’re largely irrelevant when starting out. One should only consider such things when they’re experienced enough to attempt a composition made up of multiple movements, or when they actually have a clear idea of what the narrative they’re trying to tell is, already knowing what keys and tempos correspond with the whole story they’re trying to tell.

Compositions that aren’t exercises or etudes should, in my humble opinion, never be without some formal structure: they should be comprised of more than one movement, vary in key, tempo, and rhythm, and conclude in a way that is not ambiguous. Of course, these are all just my personal preferences with respect to mature composition, but I figured there’s no harm in setting down what I think presently, in order that I may laugh at myself in the future at just how pedantic and over-intellectualized all this sounds. It is a truth after all that when a philosopher (if I may be allowed to call myself one) doesn’t know a thing, he provides his ignorance a label, and afterwards considers everything a done deal with respect to it.

I, no doubt, will find myself doing the same thing in the future, for the more I think I know, the more I feel the need to pontificate on it in order to ensure myself that I do, in fact, have some ability to sound smart, when in reality I have no idea what I’m saying. I honestly can’t wait for the day in the future when I call out my past self, and say, “Hey, you fool! You’ve said a thing you thought true then, but time has revealed it to be otherwise.” Yeah, that’ll be the day.

Anyway, returning to the composition: I tried to tell a narrative in it—that is, a story I came up with involving me and my dear friend.

The first movement is written in A minor, in an adagio tempo, which was done very deliberately. A minor as a key is often associated with a sad but tender feeling—a pensive sadness which one feels fully, but which isn’t totally comprehensible to them; it may more rightly be called the key of melancholy, for the tonic of A when played does often have a sense of longing and unrequited passion in it—like a distance which separates two lovers who love each other completely: that is surely the worst fate of all love affairs. Making the tempo adagio was supposed to represent the slow buildup of feelings and mutual respect which we two have fostered over the years. A slow tempo also adds to the sense of longing, for when one is far, they are felt more strongly by us than when they are near; for distance gives us the impression that we will lose them, and never see them in the flesh again. (Oh! How vexing the distance between us is!) The time was alla breve (cut common), and this was to give that feeling of pensiveness I spoke of above; the fewer beats per measure, the faster and more agitated the whole movement seems, and that’s what I was aiming for.

The second movement is an allegretto (a tempo I’ve never composed in before). This tempo for this movement was meant to represent us two finally meeting. Our hearts race as we finally see each other face to face, and we embrace in a fit of excitement—afterwards talking and doing all the things we said we would through text. The key chosen here was D major, which is associated with the feelings of victory and success; it is the excited key, for in D major do all things take on a grand and exalted aspect. The whole movement was meant to be a fast-paced, triumphant, happy, motivating, and encouraging exposition of emotions—two dear friends finally seeing each other after years of speaking very intimately with each other, at last to be done in person, just as we both wanted. The time was common, done in order to fit as much excitement in each measure as possible.

The third and final movement was an andante (the tempo I’m most comfortable with). It was chosen for one singular reason: what it signifies. Andante literally means ‘at a walking pace,’ and as such, I wanted it to represent the two of us walking and talking after the initial excitement of us first meeting. I thought it was a pretty clever use of the tempo—coming down from the fast-paced allegretto to the more calm and mild andante; taking a stroll with my dear love, both our hearts still beating fast, but at a much slower and regulated rhythm—at an andante pace as we both walk: you can’t get better than that correspondence I think. The key was in G major which, like D major, is a happy key—representing feelings of calmness, satisfaction, thankfulness, contentedness, etc. The time for it was 2/4, and this was because I still wanted our walking pace to have an excited aspect to it—as if we were walking slow and fast at the same time, as if we were walking with someone right on our heels, but the moment we turn around to see who it is, they disappear.

In total, the composition was exactly 300 measures, and this was totally accidental, but a very nice coincidence nonetheless—for anything with three in it has all sorts of numerological connections, all of which I’m quite fond of. The composition as a whole is 12 minutes long, which is interesting because 12 is divisible by three.

But that about does it for what I had to say about this composition—my greatest and longest at present. The past two days have been a rollercoaster of emotions for me, but I’m happy I was able to pour all these confusing and contradictory feelings into my music, and in doing so exorcised them from my soul, no longer feeling weighed down by their viciousness. I’m free as a bird now, and plan on composing a very happy and lighthearted composition next: a duet for violin and guitar (requested by another dear friend of mine) which I’ve been preparing for over a month already—this explains my prolific output, actually. I want this next composition of mine to be even greater than the one I just composed; and by the grace of God I shall achieve what I seek. Amen.

I hope everyone who has read this far into my exposition has enjoyed it, and I hope that they enjoy my composition equally well.

With that, I now bid you all adieu.

Bows silently and walks away gracefully.

This composition differs in no way greatly in comparison with my previous five; they are all guitar etudes written in only a single voice—which I cannot say was the case when I originally wrote my first ten guitar etudes: every single one was written using counterpoint, which in retrospect was a very ambitious, but ultimately foolish, thing to do, for I hadn’t yet acquired the familiarity with the instrument necessary to harmonize all the notes, and their various pitches, in the measure in any way agreeable (or so I think now looking back on them).

In music composition, a beginner must write in the most basic way at the start, in order to accustom themselves to the instrument. Over time, and with more experience, one could ignore such precaution; but at the start, it would be wise for the budding composer to begin with only basic motives and structures, primarily using half, quarter, eighth, and sixteenth notes; after which, the more they compose for the instrument, they can begin to venture a bit further into deeper and darker waters, no longer finding the depth or darkness of it all that scary, having, at first, ventured very gently into it, and drifting serenely towards what looked like certain death when stared at from land.

The waters are deep, but they can be treaded very comfortably so long as we know how to go gently into them at first, from which we gradually separate our feet from the ocean floor, and float with complete confidence, surrounded on all sides by the blue, but finding nothing to fear in its immensity. This water analogy aptly applies to music composition, for so long as we go gently into it—not wishing to advance in any way faster than what our capabilities allow for us—we shall want for nothing, and find everything we have to do very much doable, and enjoyable on top of that.

Again, like with my previous compositions, this one was written in three hours; though, I have to say, I technically only wrote for two, for while I was composing, a dear friend of mine wrote to me; and I, not having heard from them in so long, took an hour to reply to them in the most elegant manner I could muster. This actually explains why I repeated the entire first movement (before I changed key, that is): those 89 measures took an hour to compose, and so I figured since I lost an hour, I ought to at least repeat it in order to make up for it. I’m quite happy with those measures, so I don’t think much is lost as a result. But honestly, I can’t stand repeating measures.

Personally, I’ve never been a fan of classical forms—the sonata I have in mind particularly—, for the same reason I dislike formality in prose construction: they’re artificial, and serve only to restrict what the composer or author is able to convey for the sake of adhering to some established way of doing things. In my experience, I’ve found that one becomes enslaved to formality on account of being taught in a very structured and rigid way.

The way in which information is presented to us totally captures and controls the way we conceptualize it, and as a result—being the only way people have been taught—that is all they know how to do, and thus they become master of another man’s ideal for what composition or writing should be, rather than developing for themselves what they want to really create. This I never had patience for, for I found, too, that the more one tries to master what is standardized, the more prosaic and unimaginative they become. We must do the hard work of learning a thing for ourselves (if such a thing is possible) before we venture into the considerations of other people on that same topic.

This is especially true in music and writing, for both are constructed with basic foundations (in the case of writing, letters/logograms; and in music, 12 notes within the diatonic scale) which, when mastered, ought to be developed through our own efforts, rather than studying the examples of others. We waste much time imitating what someone else has already done rather than creating something on our own first. We, in my opinion, should only turn to the great masters of the subject we’re studying when we feel something is lacking in our own mode of expression.

We must turn to greatness only when we feel our own has been exhausted; in that way, we do not become beholden to what tradition and opinion has labeled as great, but rather discover what is great in another on our own terms, and in that way develop our own canon of greatness. Notice, dear reader, how much I emphasize the word ‘own,’ signifying that we as individuals must take initiative, and do what we love for our own sakes first, and only then, when we feel we have taken ourselves as far as we could on our own, must we look to sources of inspiration and hope.

Essentially, what I’m trying to say is this: we shouldn’t waste our time at the start (in any artistic or creative endeavor) learning the fundamentals from some source not our own—which is to say, not learned from ourselves, in our trials and errors. The fundamentals of any art will come to us of their own accord, but only when we seek to employ them for our own artistic ends, and find we end up producing something monstrous, in no way agreeable to anyone, or even ourselves for that matter. Only in the fires of labor and toil can we create the masterpieces we seek to make. We must strive to suffer no influence that isn’t one which we ourselves deem appreciable and of great use to us. Dead must all formalities be to us. Tradition and common ways of doing things must be ignored by us completely at the start. We must desire these old forms on our own time, rather than believe falsely (the greatest falsity ever propagated throughout the ages!) that the only way to achieve greatness in any artistic endeavor—or, really, any endeavor at all—is to first comprehend the fundamentals as taught or passed down by another, rather than following our own heart, and trying and failing and learning on our own.

I fight greatly against this notion because I’ve found (in my own experience at least, which is the only source I draw from in all my writings!) one wastes more time when they try to learn the fundamentals in a very structured, boring, rigid, standardized way, rather than when they, again, on their own, attempt a thing, and fail, and try again, and repeat that attempt until they fail no longer, or until they seek out ways of bypassing their failure.

Learning must be self-directed in the main, and any learning that is not done in this manner is merely the dross of memory which our minds labored over until we were able to repeat by rote what we strove to understand, in truth, really only memorizing, thus not really learning or understanding at all, but merely receiving cold, and thus failing to make it reach our hearts to be warmed by our spirits—thus making it dead and forgettable, which is really what all knowledge becomes when it is not learned under the impetus of our own desire to know it. But I think I’ve said enough regarding my thoughts on how one should approach learning.

I hope all this has been interesting to whoever reads it, and I hope, too, that my composition is equally interesting.

Goodbye, everyone.

———

Written in E major and B major, 2/4 time, Moderato tempo, 183 measures.

This composition seemed to be reaching out for something which it feels but which it cannot see. What I refer to here is my approaching maturity. There is never a moment in our development which we can point at and say, “Ah yes, this here is where I went from an imbecile to a mature being.” The progress of life is founded on a mutual agreement, unknown to both, in which the subject persists at great expense and labor to themselves; while time moves inexorably along without the slightest care for the fate of whatever finds itself in its domain. We (the subject) continue on with faith and hope, rather than certainty and assurance. That there is the bond, the mutual agreement, the collaboration done not out of will, but out of (metaphysical) necessity. We are like leaves carried along by a giant stream, unfortunate enough to be separated from our tree of perpetual unconsciousness.

Eternal progress is no progress at all, for nothing ever happens which hasn’t already had some previous manifestation. All reality becomes like smoke in the wind the instant we compare it to eternity. All is doomed to decay and dust, and like us (mankind), confusion shall forever dominate the cosmos—playing out as it always has, until all states rapidly succumb to entropy, and leave nothing but an incoherent amalgamation of matter and material for none to become cognizant of. Mankind is the universe understood within itself. We are but self-aware stardust, and bless us this moment, this temporary awareness, and forgive us our confusion, as we forgive the universe for presenting confusion against us; lead us not into confusion, and deliver us from ignorance, AMEN!

But what does all this have to do with music? To be honest, I have no idea. The thing about music is that it could potentially touch on all aspects of reality, for through it are we influenced, and it would be foolish to ignore the impact this influence has on us. Music enlivens, quickens, strengthens, encourages, and, above all else, gives us a new lens or perspective by which to frame our reality. When I listen to a piece by Mozart or Schubert, I’m no longer the same man I was prior to listening to that piece, even if it’s a piece I’ve heard a million times already.

We are forever in different circumstances, and as a result, the way we view our life in relation to the world changes completely in accordance with what has happened to us as we live. Eternal is change, ceaseless is the motion of reality, continuous and repetitious is the rhythm of life—that is, of course, until it becomes meretricious as a result of its familiarity to us. Such is why novelty is something we forever chase, and why we are eternally dissatisfied with what we’ve already accomplished. Man is always wanting to increase what he has no right to beyond his simple desire for it—his desire is his right, and that alone justifies it in his mind. Alas, let man continue to want, for in that does he grow, though growth today is really regression, but that has already been explained by me elsewhere, and not germane to the topic of music.

I suppose I ought now to briefly discuss how this composition came about. Well, that’s kind of a rhetorical question, for my answer is always the same: I don’t know; the notes simply came to me while I was playing the scale of the main key I was in, and in hearing the notes, I found the best approaches to reach the tonic, and then endeavored to put down what at first my brain comprehended, and then my heart lifted to sublimity. It doesn’t even matter to me if I write a poor measure at this point, for I’m so confident in my ability to correct whatever is in error, I actually welcome the errors, for they give me just the justification I need to write more music.

It’s only right that I now explain my method, or approach, if you like, to composition proper (at present, at least, for it’s likely to change as I grow more experienced). It’s rather simple—so simple, in fact, it may surprise you: I sit at my desk and give myself three hours to compose, and within that time I simply follow the initial motive I managed to develop (almost always by accident), and later try to embellish and vary it using all the tricks I’m familiar with. Composition, to me, requires deliberate practice, without which it will never become easier. The more one works, the more one accomplishes.

I am reminded of that famous quote by Bach in this instance, “I was obliged to work hard. Whoever is equally industrious will succeed just as well.” That there is really the only thing one needs to hear regarding progress in any endeavor. Talent and aptitude flatten out as time progresses, and in the end, are only negligible advantages—which is to say, advantages that only appear at the start of someone’s development, but which get forgotten the more one obtains, and the more experience one has.

To return to the composition, however, it was inspired primarily by the first movement of Ferdinand Ries’s WoO #11 (composed in 1803)—a piano sonata that is really an exercise more than anything else, but which still shows signs of incredible genius and ingenuity. Ries was a student of Beethoven’s, and it clearly shows in this piece more than any of his other early compositions. The gravity and seriousness with which the first movement opens—in a slow, almost agonizing largo tempo—is quickly subdued and overcome with a serious but jovial allegro; repeating quarter notes are followed by a flurry of 16ths, and this pace is kept up throughout it. I could go on in this manner explaining the rest of the piece, but I am no Schumann or Hoffmann—nor do I possess the technical knowledge to thoroughly break apart the score using Roman numeral analysis or whatever the musicologists have concocted to make comprehensible and dead what is eternal in the hearts of man.

Whatever, though. I’ve said enough. Whoever reads this, I hope you enjoyed it, and I equally hope you enjoy my composition. Thanks.

———

Written in B minor and A major, common time, Largo and Allegro tempos, 121 measures.

This composition was even easier than the one I composed yesterday. At present, it feels as if I’m on the verge of a great discovery: that discovery being my own musical voice. Just like with writing, a composer carries with them a musical spirit that represents who they are. Their soul is surrounded completely by their individuality, and what comes forth when they compose is nothing short of who they are in actuality. Music is the means by which a man may convey himself totally, for the soul, in its purest form, is presented without artifice or obfuscation.

What is music? Nothing but the attempt, on behalf of the composer, to signal to others exactly what they mean in a way that cannot be put into words. Music lifts us up to a higher level of understanding, for when we listen to a composition (no matter the genre), we see ourselves represented in the sounds composed by another. That is the greatest aspect of music: that one can communicate with an open heart what they mean without fear of being misunderstood, for music does not speak, but rather passes the understanding and ventures directly into our instincts, where it acquires an intuitive understanding. That is why music is understood by everyone—it is inherent in our nature, and cannot be incomprehensible to us even if we tried to make it so.

Music is the light by which all confusion is shone upon, thus vanquishing the darkness of ignorance which is ever present in the world, and revealing to us true intelligence through the brightness of harmony, melody, rhythm, and soul!

But these are all philosophical musings, and I ought now to briefly discuss the work itself, as is customary at this point.

As with my previous composition (and which will remain the case for all my future compositions—at least in this stage of my compositional journey), I composed this work in three hours, and, seeing very little wrong with it afterwards, only took an hour to edit. It felt even easier than my last one, and this ease gives me much encouragement, as well as indicating to me that with enough practice and composition, along with a gradually deepening understanding of music theory generally, I will produce truly interesting and endearing works.

With my current mastery, and with the speed at which I’m composing, I don’t see why, within a year’s time, I won’t be able to produce my first opus—which I intend to make either a string symphony, string trio/quartet, or piano trio. I don’t know which one yet, though—time will decide for me, I guess. I will, however, produce many WoO (works without opus number) in the interim of composing etudes and works requested by friends.

Music is no longer a struggle for me (just like writing), and like I said in the preface to my last composition, I could not be happier at this fact. I find composing music far more enjoyable than writing—and probably will always think so—for music taps into a part of my being that has been repressed for far too long; now that it’s unchained, and gets to roam the world freely without worry, it can unleash all its passionate energy without worry of injuring anything nearby. This energy finds its focus on the stave, and as such allows me to write the notes which correspond most closely to my heart.

Every great endeavor requires time and patience. My ambition is to become great, but I know becoming so is not something which I can do overnight. I must endure, and find enjoyment in reaching my goal slowly, rather than in one fell swoop. Such a thing is not even possible in the realm of music, for even the most precocious geniuses of composition—Mozart, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Saint-Saëns, Bizet, etc.—took years (even after mastering the fundamentals relatively quickly) to produce works of true value and lasting influence.

I may be getting into music relatively late compared to them, but I have the advantage of beginning in a more mature state of mind; as such, I know how I learn best already, and can quickly address whatever I feel is lacking in my compositions without the slightest hint of pressure or anxiety of any kind. With all this understood by me, I can approach composition without fear, and hope in the future to produce works on par with those composed by all those composers I admire most: Haydn, Boccherini, Mozart, Beethoven, Ferdinand Ries, Carl Czerny, George Onslow, Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Schumann.

With these acknowledgements made by me, I can now safely bring this preface to a close; I hope my viewers have enjoyed reading it, and that they enjoy my composition.

———

Written in A major, 6/4 time, Andante tempo, 69 measures.

This composition, like my previous one, was composed in three hours and only took around an hour to edit. I’m extremely happy with it and found myself completely at ease while composing. This was my first composition in which I didn’t feel the slightest hint of anxiety or stress. From the first note, I felt in my element and relished all the rhythms and harmonies I was able to create.

With this composition now complete, I seem to glimpse a future light born from a source unknown to me, and not seen by me; and in that light, I see a future me, in which I compose with as much fluidity and ease as I write this preface to my composition. The future me in that vision will soon be me (presently), no doubt, but some time must pass before that becomes reality. I must have patience.

With that said, though, I truly do believe that from this point on, composition will no longer be something for me to fear, but rather a canvas on which to paint my emotions in the most elegant way I can manage. Everything has its proper time and place. A time to live and a time to die. A time to have fun and a time to know boredom. A time to be an amateur and a time to be a professional. Time reveals all things, and given the amount of work I’ve already put into composing, all that time seems not to have been wasted on me. This is the most gratifying affirmation I could receive in all the world.

To have devoted so much time to a pursuit you began out of love, only for it to return all the love you have given it—though not without first overcoming a long period of unrequitedness—is a satisfaction unlike any other. I’m reminded of a quote by Goethe on love in this instance, in which he says (and I paraphrase here): “There is no greater satisfaction that one could receive than to completely have the object of their desire.” Goethe was speaking of his first serious love, Charlotte, in this quote, but I speak of music.

Music is my muse, and she brings me endless delight now that I’ve endured her at her worst; she rewards me plenty for having the courage to endure her annoyances, and that clear devotion to her in spite of it dawned on her after some time: now, she thoroughly loves me and lavishes me with musical motifs which I can now develop without much difficulty, and I have no hesitation in correcting it should what follows it not be in agreement with it. I have overcome much in loving her, and even sacrificed some of my well-being for her sake, and with all this now done for her, and her acknowledging all my efforts for her, she has given me the confidence to compose and the wisdom to correct what I do wrong.

I am the happiest man alive as a result, and only hope to remain faithful to her, in order that I may produce more music; and maybe, just maybe, come to uplift another with what I compose, and move them a little closer to happiness. That is my goal after all with composition, and that is what I continue to aim for; even should I hit the target, I will never stop aiming, for there is more to hit, more to do, and more to listen to as I brace myself for the next composition.

Amen to music. AMEN

---

Written in G major, 3/4 time, Allegro tempo, 174 measures.

This was my first composition using counterpoint for the violin on MuseScore—all my other ones were composed using Flat (which I’m so happy to have moved away from).

I had forgotten how long it takes to write a piece using counterpoint. My last composition with it was my 10th guitar etude (J.20). Since that time (ten days to be exact), I’ve reached a maturity in my compositional development I didn’t think possible within so short a time. It’s been a little over a month since my very first composition—composed on the 5th of July—and within that time I’ve already written 25 more, none of which are truly good yet, but which all bear the stamp of my originality, and which track my development in composition.

Overall, I can’t complain with how much progress I’ve already made, and only hope to continue with the same vigor for as long as I can; which is to say, to compose at the frenzied pace I presently maintain—like some man gone mad over music, whose only love is music, in fact, and who wishes to devote his whole soul to this very passion. Imagine that: a man whose inner muse whispers sweet melodies to him whilst he sits in his chair and contemplates his heart. That man is me presently, and that is where all my love lies currently. I cannot live without music. Without it, life would be a mistake; yea, everything in this world would be lifeless and without purpose as a result. Music is the one refuge mankind has from worldly affairs that doesn’t require a justification. It is the pure embodiment of the composer’s soul, and allows the listener to have direct access to what they felt whilst composing the work. I’d go as far as to call it a miracle, and shall always have hope enough to live so long as I have music in my life. Amen to music!

Regarding the composition itself, it was composed in three hours, and took an additional one and a half to edit in full. This work is shorter than my previous five violin etudes because, again, it was the first of them in which I used counterpoint—something I had wanted to build up to, for I thought the anticipation I would feel in waiting would allow me to produce something quite remarkable; and while I can’t call it a masterpiece to be remembered for all time, in it I managed to produce a few pleasing measures, and that’s really all I could ask for at this stage in my development.

Writing for two voices is like composing two separate pieces of music. The precision one must have in crafting just the right notes to produce a pleasing harmony, along with the patience necessary to hear over and over again the same measure, borders on the miraculous. It truly is astonishing the amount of labor that goes into producing a few decent measures. One thing composing has given me is a much deeper appreciation for music in general. It is no easy endeavor, and this fact must always be remembered when we listen to a piece of music, whatever the genre may be; we merely see the finished product, but don’t see all the work and anguish which went into it—the same is true of poetry.

In spite of the strain composition causes, love carries me along nonetheless. I hope one day to compose as beautifully and easily as a Mozart, Schubert, or Mendelssohn. Until then, though, I must be content with where I’m at now, and allow time and my own labor to be the things which get me to that point.

———

Written in D major and B minor; in common time; in Adagio and Andantino tempo. 68 measures total.

This is, without doubt, my greatest composition yet. I even shocked myself with it, if I may speak without vanity. I’m not totally sure what happened to me between my last composition and this one, but something feels different; there is, in this work here, a glimpse into my future maturity as a composer, no question about it.

While composing it, all felt easy. I had a total command of all the motives which I wanted to develop, and I was able to instantly conceive in my mind the right set of notes that perfectly corresponded with what I heard in my head. On top of all this, editing was much shorter, for I found most of what I composed to be to my liking already. It was as if I was receiving from God the precise notes I needed in order to feel satisfied with the composition. In it I seemed to have finally grasped—as well as synthesized—the necessary aspects of pitch and rhythm required for one to be able to produce measure after measure of pure consonance.

But let me not get too far ahead of myself. There’s still very little formal structure to the piece, and I still have no memorable melody to speak of. The greatest aspects of this composition—which are also the same for my other ones, I would say—are my creative use of articulations and my voice leading. With counterpoint, pitch, and rhythm now more or less understood completely by me, I have to focus my attention on formal structures (binary form, sonata form, rondos, waltzes, ecossaises, etc.) as well as melodic development—where my motives are actually repeated for many measures and ring within the ears of my listeners.

Once these five things (counterpoint, pitch (harmony), rhythm (tempo), structure, and melody) are fully harmonized in my mind, I feel I have the potential to produce really interesting compositions—music with great value, and very much enjoyable to hear.

Of interest as well in this composition is the fact that this is the first piece I composed where I deliberately modulate to a different key entirely—going from E♭ major to G♭ major—which produced a rather pleasing sound somewhere around the 4:40 mark (at the 145th measure). All that flowed from my mind after the start of that measure was pure gold, and I am not a little proud of it.

Anyway, I think I’ve said enough about this composition. I hope you enjoy it!

———

Written in 6/8 time, in multiple keys (E♭ major, C minor, and G♭ major), in Andante tempo. 197 total measures.

Inspired by the 4th movement (Allergo) of Bach’s Sonata No.2 for Solo Violin (BWV 1003).

Not entirely happy with this one, but one must first compose trash if they’re to eventually compose something worth treasuring. It is difficult to endure mediocrity, but there is no other way but through with respect to it. I SHALL SUCCEED ONE DAY!

This Allegro was much more difficult to compose than I had anticipated. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea getting the hang of 8th and 16th notes at a fast tempo would be this hard.

I’m happy to say, however, that in composing this very difficult piece—a piece I’m not ultimately satisfied with, but from which I learned an extraordinary amount—I have hit upon two compositional discoveries which I will utilize from here on out.

The first, which I’m angry with myself for not realizing sooner, is that notes sound most harmonious when paired with their neighboring notes, rather than in large leaps—this being the result of the difference in pitch, which often creates a jarring sound should the following note not lie close to the one which preceded it. I’ve found that the most consonant transition between measures (no matter the notes used) will always occur so long as the second note is not too far in pitch from the note before it; personally, I’ve found anything higher than two notes above the initial note results in dissonance of some kind.

This is extremely useful when it comes to constructing a measure that has rhythmic variation (the precise thing I was experimenting with in this etude), for without knowledge of this principle one cannot create any pleasing sounds no matter the combination of notes. The only time one should leap in pitch is for dramatic effect, usually at the end of the measure, or when one is trying to deliberately create dissonance.

The second discovery I made is that, depending on the tempo, 8th and 16th notes can play faster than how we imagine them in our heads. The tempo of a piece is the biggest determining factor in how a composition sounds to us. How long a note is to linger, and how it is to be articulated as a result, is all up to the tempo. The tempo IS the rhythm, for it literally determines the beats within the measure. In composing this piece, I discovered the reason why I had such difficulty in using 8th and 16th notes: for one, they often had drastically different pitches when I composed them; but second, and this is more to the point, I didn’t know how to reduce, or vary, the speed at which they ran through the measure.

I now know that if I am to use them, they must appear at the start of a measure rather than in the middle, and must be preceded by a note near in pitch to them. I also found that each motive should be symmetric with respect to the movement overall.

Now that about does it for my discoveries. The composition itself was written in three hours, but took roughly six to edit. Having now completed it, I can say that I have mastered the 8th and 16th notes, as well as their combinations, and am now very comfortable developing whatever motive my mind conjures up when composing. From here on, composing should come as naturally as breathing.

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Written in A major, 3/4 time, Allegro tempo.

This one I quite like. It was written in the wake of me downloading Spotify for the first time and making many playlists for various composers. As you could imagine, that meant I heard a LOT of music since writing my last etude. Speaking of which, I wrote this one also without counterpoint. I think this restraint I’m giving myself is actually to my benefit.

What I’m trying to master at present is the use of 16th notes in combination with 8th notes for only a single voice. I still find it challenging to write a measure that doesn’t sound awkward when using those two notes in conjunction. The reason being that I’m not yet confident in imagining in my head the length each holds when written—made only more complicated by the notes that follow it, usually of different lengths. For example, an 8th note connected with a 16th (beamed together) means the next note will play much sooner because the 16th lasts that much less in comparison to the 8th. This I understand, but putting it into practice has been anything but easy. I have yet to become comfortable with just how fast it moves through the measure, to say nothing of the tempo which, if anything above Andante, makes it shoot by extremely quickly, always messing me up as a result.

My next etude will be an Allegro, and I hope to experiment with these pesky 8th-16th note combinations. I’m realizing how crucial they are to giving a composition more vivacity and flair; without them, the whole movement sounds monotonous, and the ear can only take so much one note being played before giving up on the piece entirely. That’s actually why I find counterpoint so easy: I don’t really have to worry about whether the notes are played too fast or slow, because the accompanying voice often harmonizes with the notes, making the tempo of each note not as important (though it still sounds good in my case, thankfully).

I guess it should also go without saying that writing solo music is a difficult labor, especially without counterpoint, for you have to rely primarily on melody, ornaments, dynamics, articulations, and (the most challenging of all, for it requires the use of different notes) rhythm. I think once I master rhythm, I should have no problem whatsoever coming up with any motive, and making it flow nicely with whatever notes I follow it up with; that, in my view, is the essence of harmony: the ability to make each note stand independently in the measure, and have each sound they produce flow as one consonant whole. This, of course, depends entirely on the tempo and which notes you ultimately use. Four 16th notes do not ring the same in a Largo tempo as they do in an Allegro or Presto tempo.

I know this is all besides the point, but it is something which has vexed my mind the past few days, and I cannot wait until I finally have a grasp of how each note plays in the measure given the tempo and the notes that precede and follow them. Once I have this down, I shall (more or less) have grasped all the most basic fundamentals of music, and then I can really start producing works of high quality. As of yet, even my best works still lack rhythmic variation, and still are wholly without melody or real coherent structure—like binary or sonata form, for example. All in due time, though. All in due time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Thanks!

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Written in C major, 4/4 time, Larghetto tempo, 115 measures.

This is, without doubt, my first truly good composition. Everything before this was merely a prelude to this spirited effort. I utilized everything I was capable of, and quite literally exhausted my musical capabilities in composing this work. Everything at my disposal, with the exception of counterpoint (which I’m quite proud to admit), was used, and nothing was spared its due consideration. If the idea worked, I kept it, and if it didn’t, I deleted the measure and tried over again.

It wasn’t easy—in fact, it was one of the hardest intellectual tasks I have ever undertaken—but having now finished it, and finding myself incredibly happy with the results, I can say that all the effort was worth it; and I can only hope that in the future, such compositions can be composed at a much faster pace. On the whole, the composition was written in three hours, and took an additional six to edit, during which I added a few measures, provided ornaments and articulations, and messed with the dynamics. It is my longest work thus far; it is made up of three movements (my first: Andantino, Adagio, and Andante), is written in C major, and consists of 281 measures. Not too bad for only my 21st composition.

I only wish it were better, but that will come in due time—I have no doubt about that. I really hope you enjoy it. What the future holds in store for me with respect to composing I know not, but as of right now, I am content with this work, and hope so much to write similar good works from here on out! I love it all, and wouldn’t have it any other way presently.

Written in C major, 4/4 time, Adagio, 36 measures.

This is my first composition using MuseScore Studio. I couldn’t take the artificial, synthesized sound of the instruments on Flat any longer, lol. It took a little getting used to, but I more or less accustomed myself to the program while composing this work, and I like it a lot more than Flat. I will be using MuseScore from here on out, for not only is the interface better, but the instruments sound a lot more realistic.

Hope you like it.

Written in F major/D minor.

Grave tempo.

2/4 time.

36 measures.

Written within an hour.

B minor, 4/4 time, Andante.

This one was experimental. Lots of counterpoint and ornament used throughout. I think, however, that in composing it I found a new approach to composition that will help me compose faster, and thus play with more ideas quicker.

I wrote the 51 measures within an hour, but editing my counterpoint was the long part. With time though this should all come easy. Hope you like it.

Without doubt my new best composition. 124 measures long, written in two movements (Andante and Allegro). The Andante was a challenge because I wanted to write it without counterpoint; so I replied heavily on ornaments, the trill and mordents especially. In the Allegro, I used counterpoint to the best of my ability, and harmonized the double voices as best I could—enjoying it all the while. I feel myself growing ever more comfortable with composing. What a joy this feeling is.

I hope you enjoy it.

E Major

Common time

Moderato

I wanted to see how many measures I could write within an hour using common time with an Allegro tempo. 50 turned out to be the answer, which isn’t a bad amount considering I only giving myself an hour to write whatever came to mind. I then spend nearly three hours editing what was initially written.

Editing a composition takes longer than actually composing it, I swear. I also made a few realizations while composing it that I hope to investigate a bit further in my next etude later today. Hope you enjoy it.