Alternate Lives. →[More:]

A few days ago, I read an article about a plethora of openings for musicians in various orchestras around the country, including Chicago, L.A., and the NY Philharmonic. The Philharmonic, in fact, has an opening for principal clarinet. Once upon a time, a dream job for me (apparently, one can earn up to half a million dollars for such a job, too, with somewhat lesser positions still over a hundred grand).

Once upon a time, I practiced up to four hours a day; I lived and breathed the clarinet. I took a year off between high school and college and studied music intensely (two private hour-and-a-half clarinet lessons a week; piano lessons; playing in four different youth and university bands or orchestras). I was quite serious; I'd played clarinet since fourth grade, but only started private lessons my senior year of high school. I was lucky that my parents, especially my father, who was tone deaf, supported my endeavors, financially and otherwise. In less than two years, I was holding my own at the number three music school in the country (the University of Michigan).

It was an achievement to be sure, but after all that, I was not at the top. I was close to the best, but not the best. When I auditioned, I placed in the third clarinets of the second concert band, a great concert band, no doubt, but a bit of an ego buster. Plus, there were the "talks"/warnings by professors about the lack of potential jobs for classical musicians, and I'd seen my very fine clarinet teacher who also graduated from Michigan and played circles around me struggle to make a piece-meal living, teaching and getting gigs where he could (I hope he auditions; the Philharmonic really couldn't do better). I saw a future of suffering through out-of-tune elementary school band rehearsals; it was not for me. If I couldn't be the best, I didn't want it.

But I guess the article brought up old longings. After two years in the music school at Michigan, I transfered to Liberal Arts and majored in Psychology (of course, now I'm a high school English teacher and aspiring writer, so go figure). But imagine if I'd kept practicing? How good might I be now? Once upon a time, I did love it, and I was good (I don't know about New York Philharmonic Principal Clarinetist good --that's the equivalent of an Olympic athlete -- but good. I guess I'll never know. I rarely play anymore. I don't know about getting back into classical, but I wouldn't mind studying jazz/blues, just for my own pleasure).

Lately, I feel like the same thing's happening with writing; I see it slipping away. I finished my MFA almost ten years ago. The novel I started then (along with about a dozen other project ideas) remains unfinished. I'm almost 44. I do believe in no excuses, and I am grateful to have a job I at least don't hate and pays the bills and gives me much needed time off, but I'd like to do more. I am, at heart, however, a very lazy person (Big Lebowski lazy). And even with all that, if I had to do college/career over I'd be a research scientist, maybe in astronomy or genetics (and a writer; I can't see giving that up). I guess I never really did "decide" what I wanted to be when I grow up. Maybe it's just fantasy to distract myself from what can be the drudgery of "real" life.

In any case, how 'bout you? Any alternate realities, lost/delayed dreams, missed paths? I'd love to hear your tales.