I originally became a writer by default. With no regard for the well-being of my family I trained as a classical pianist, subjecting all around me to four hours of practice a day. I suspect the pterodactyls that landed in my stomach before public concerts had something to do with not taking up a career as a concert pianist. Instead, I found myself learning how to put rear ends on concert hall seats, otherwise known as orchestral management. My first job in that heady field entailed writing the program notes for the National Symphony Orchestra in Washington, DC. Now, that was a job made in heaven. I wallowed in the music section of the Library of Congress and luxuriated in the incredible privilege of being allowed to take books home to read. The research was as much fun as writing the notes, if not more so. My job was to write such compelling notes about the music on the concert program that audiences would actually want to read them before scanning the donor lists to see who may
Opening a Chapter of Inspiration Served with a Heavy Dose of Reality