Entry 2: I have returned to my first love, writing. But I can’t end my passionate relationship with music.
Stuck.
Before I decided to dedicate the rest of my life to this blog, I was wallowing at a painful crossroads: should I purchase Yamaha DGX 670 and pursue my passion for piano and music or should I write and publish books myself instead?
At 47, I still couldn’t figure out what my life purpose was. Even the word “career” seemed far-fetched and ambitious. Like, “who even are you to ponder on the word right next to your strange name?”
I lived as a vagabond. I would dive into my creative impulses upon each strike. And just exactly how many gadgets had I already purchased over the years? Digital piano keyboards, audio tools, cameras, which I only ended up giving all away later on. I also did something embarrassing: vanity publishing (which cost me a lot of money in 2009). How desperate must I have been to be heard and seen all in the name of my “art”? Not to mention all the paid WordPress websites I had created along the way which I only scrapped out in the end.
These decisions hurt my bank accounts. Though keep in mind, I wasn’t paying much attention to all my hard-earned dollars at all. My mindset was stuck: “I’m going to keep on slaving away anyway. I’m fine with blue-collar jobs because that is all I can ever be as an immigrant to this country.”
Which was ironic because I would still pursue my so-called “passions” believing that I would somehow make it someday. Also ironic because I didn’t have the “grit” to make it happen, the way that those two confident kids had who badly wanted to have one successful sale of their Google Review Pad this summer.
Yet, after all that, I found myself at a career crossroads which I never asked for anymore. I simply went through life motions: working long shifts, doom scrolling at night, repeat.
Though, at some point, I had to make use of my Lumix FZ300 which I bought, once again, out of an “urgent impulse” that street photography was meant to find my “creative path” in a way that piano and writing couldn’t.
But nope. I was still miserable. I had no idea what mattered. The dilemma was so strong. Stuck. Until the devil’s advocate showed up one evening.
The devil’s advocate’s six words were merciless.
“She”. Yes, it was a she. She pranced inside as I was scrambling to close up. It was almost eight at night. I was ready to go home while my mind was figuring out something productive to do. Creative wise? Not at all. I just felt the need to watch Yuja Wang‘s piano performance on YouTube. It could be Martha Argerich, Lang Lang, or Glenn Gould. Who knew who I would fancy to watch the moment I opened my laptop as soon as I got home.
Then, this illuminating woman showed up like she owned the world. She looked successful. She had a bright smile. Her eyes sparkled and spoke something powerful like, “I am here to remind you of who you truly are.” In an uncanny twist, this was on the same day that I had encountered the two confident kids who badly wanted to sell a Google Review pad to me. Could this be a “point of no return” sign from the universe or what?
I was compelled to make her order despite the fact that I had to clean the line again, which also meant more dishes to wash. As I was making her food, she struck up an unsolicited conversation. She asked what my name was, then followed it up with, “So, what do you do outside of work? Who are you outside of here?”
At first, I was taken aback. I thought to myself, “Dang, this woman was stripping me off my mask.”
Let me tell you, I had never met anybody who would ask me such a bold question before. Normally, I would hear, even in my old writing circles, “So, what do you do for work? What’s your day job?” And of course, I would respond with a fancy, dignified word like, “I’m a restaurant supervisor”, which was a lot of times, true, even without mentioning the company’s name, not because I was embarrassed, but because I didn’t feel the need to.
Imagine being in a room full of lawyers, accountants, Broadway talents, United Nations professionals, writers who actually made a living with their talent (this was in New York City), and then there was me who had no career reputation whatsoever to speak of at all. Even here in Toronto, I was nowhere near my writing peers who were teachers, in IT, office workers, in entertainment. And yet, we all had the same goal in mind: “own” the magic of writing and “grow” together.
Okay. Enough of the “context ramble” now.
So, to answer the stranger’s question, I said, “Well, I’m at a crossroads, actually. I write and play the piano. Now, I’ve been stuck. I don’t know which one I’m supposed to take seriously this time and make something out of myself with it somehow.”
She smiled. Not a smirk. Not a “You’ve got to be kidding me! You?” smile. It was genuine and she was elated about it. “Wonderful! Tell me your story,” she bugged on.
“I have been writing since I was probably around five or six,” I said. “My grandparents raised me so then I would write letters to my parents who lived in the city at that time. That’s how it started.”
“That’s beautiful,” she said, grinning. She was eager to know more. “What about piano?”
“I grew up in a musical family on my maternal side,” I said. “It was because of church that everybody was naturally compelled to learn the piano. But they all studied music, some went to a piano school, some were tutored. I didn’t, I wasn’t. I was insecure. But all I had was the extreme determination to learn it myself. So, when I moved here, something happened. I got more into Beethoven. I studied his style, then I would imagine myself playing those “thunderous” and “emotional” improvisations. Until I cracked it. I discovered this “piano code” in me. And from then on, I could just sit at the piano and play improvisations while channeling Beethoven in the process. And they all thought I went to a music school here in Canada or something. So, that’s my piano story.”
The amazement glistening out of her eyes made me feel warm inside. A little acknowledgment, though she had not seen me play yet, but she believed in her bones that I could actually do it. No evidence needed anymore to convince her, and boy, did I feel alive at this point.
“You have to go to your church and talk to your pastor,” she said.
“Ah, I have no time for it, to be honest,” was my sad reply.
Then, she tilted her head. This time, she commanded the room. It chilled my spine a bit. Was she judging me? It seemed like her aura shifted. Not in a scary way, though. But in a pragmatic kind of way that I, once again, had to question my existence: What was I here for?
“Which one would make you money?” she asked.
I froze. I felt cold all of a sudden. It was “the” question that I had never thought of before, really. “To make it” was a vastly vague road for me to even take on. I had no idea what “success” meant for me at all, what it looked and felt like. A lot of horrifying questions jabbed me in the face at once which would probably require me to bask in a spiritual retreat just to get through it in time.
Music is a saturated place. What makes my piano talent unique anyway that people would want to actually watch my performances even on Social Media despite the fact that I’m camera-shy? Nothing. Books and all sorts of writing can now be classified as AI slops. Writing has no financial future anymore because of it. So, now, what’s left for me to do?
“So, which one would make you money?” she insisted.
“Something authentic,” I said. “Something that’s real for me.” But the truth was, I had no clue as to what it was yet. What was authentic and real for me anyway?
Piano is a tangible experience. People can actually watch a human play and create music in real time. Writing fiction and poetry nowadays can be untrustworthy. Even when I’m reading something, like a book I have just downloaded on Google Play Books for free, it makes me question the validity of its content. Is the author AI or human? Unless Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Maya Angelou, Virginia Woolf, George Orwell or Ernest Hemingway wrote it, then yes, this was “human work”. No question.
“Think about that,” she said.
“Oh, I will,” I said while my mind wandered away into truth searching.
She then gave me her name and contact information which was sweet.
How did I make a pivotal choice to get into this blog instead?
I refused to spend a hefty amount. I compromised with “regret” instead.
Yamaha DGX670 would cost me $1300. Along with some essentials: pedals, stand, piano stool, microphone (just in case I would feel the need to write songs), video lighting kit, “hermit” costume (I thought of keeping myself anonymous in my piano videos), USB audio interface, and CapCut subscription. Overall, I must have at least a $2000 budget for this to work if I were to take it seriously.
I even went as far as calling Long & McQuade with an assurance that I would purchase the digital piano keyboard on a Sunday and if they could make delivery arrangements as soon as possible. Looking back now, what a way to make a fool out of myself. It was embarrassing!
Yes, I ghosted my piano venture for reasons that were unclear to me at that time.
All I knew was my intuition was just telling me, “No! Stop right there and sit down! Think it over first! What’s the matter with you?”
Because, frankly, I liked how my checking and savings accounts were growing somehow – though little by little.
What about writing?
I remember a good friend of mine back in the day who said to me, “You don’t need to look for stories to write anymore. Write your own story instead.” And I thought, “Wait. A memoir? A biography? Who would even be interested in reading my sob story?” Besides, I was too arrogant then to share my vulnerabilities and my weaknesses. I refused to be shamed. I would much rather write a parable about a boy who ran away in the middle of the night with his dead cat to embark on a journey towards the town centre to get to church to demand God to bring his beloved pet back to life. That was the kind of story that I wanted to share with the world. Not mine.
Then I started noticing things around me which I never noticed before: Pretty much in every conversation, money was the star of it all. If a co-worker would tell me about the restaurant that he went to last weekend, he would then make a logical point about its value. He would mention the “prices” that went along with the experiences. If an ecstatic co-worker would gush about the new camera lens he got from Facebook Marketplace, rest assured, the price bargain was something that he could not pass off. If I had to go out on my day off, I had to make sure my credit card was in my “main” wallet and ready to tap through the rest of my purchase venture. Then, on my commute back home, I would judge myself relentlessly.
Plus, I am 47 years old. I’ve gotta take this “retirement business” seriously from now on. I have a niece that I love so much and I want to make sure she will be financially okay in the future even long after I’m gone. And also, a little legacy to leave behind?
Like this blog?
So, this was my “little” investment. And hopefully, I will stick around all through retirement with a clear sense of purpose about my life and what I’m meant to do while I’m still alive.
Thank you for reading.
AE
Image by: AE
