Music Mondays Part XX

Well, it’s been a long couple of weeks. Whether you follow American politics or not, and no matter your opinions for or against the president elect, I feel like we all just need to relax. Unwind. Take a breather. Think about your loved ones. Drink some tea. Listen to this calming instrumental playlist I made just for you.

And, of course, write.



Happy writing!:)

A Symphony To A Drone

It becomes.

Discordant — not
together. Dissonance — out
of pitch. Is there a pitch?
No. Not clear.

Now.

Crescendo. Key. Clear,
I hear.
Crescendo. Forte.
Forte. FORTISSIMO!

Leitmotif detected.

How do they say?
Destruction — a
personified devastation.

Key switch.
Bewitch.

Piano. P i a n i s s i m o.

Lamentoso. Their
is a fluctuating
scale, a line in
green becomes red and
frequent.
Frequency — shrill.

D e c r e s c e n d o.
A cadence alone.

Espressivo! ESPRESSIVO!

And here the octaves meet
the mark.

2 2 3 4, 3 2 3 4, 4 2 3 4

Full stop.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Music Remembers

Baseem split the cherry between his fingers. Red juice stained the grooves of his thumb and dripped off the end of his fingernail. He rubbed the pads of his fingers together, mashing the berry into a raw, bloody pulp. When he was finished, he flicked the mangled remains off the side of the deck and held his hand up for me to see.

Ya amar, do you hear it?” he asked.

My flute felt cold between my fingers, and I lowered it to my lap. “Hear? Don’t you mean see?

“No, hear. I have wondered if you can hear it too, the way I can. If when you press your lips to your reed and blow you can hear the colors, or at least imagine them before they erupt like spitting embers from your instrument.” He rotated his wrist in front of his face, studying the red seeping down his palm. “When you played the friscalleto, I heard this precise shade. Cherry red. Like the wine we acquired from Donnalucata. Like the poppies that covered the hills beyond the beach. Like the fire that —”

I turned my head away, and I hated myself for the bitterness that glassed my eyes. “I hear no colors, signore. I am afraid that the visual arts are not my area of expertise.”

“Ah, but music is the highest of all visual arts,” Baseem said, his eyes smiling. “You know better than anyone, Ludovica, that music remembers. Music is memory. And what is memory if not visual?” He crossed the deck towards me, taking heavy, deliberate steps with the heels of his boots. “There is an aching in your compositions. A red. A remembrance. You must hear it.”

Mama’s ribbon. Papà’s steamed crab. Cosima’s rosary beads. Orazio’s blood.

I flooded my face of expression.


An excerpt from a work-in-progress.

Music Mondays: Part XIX

Admittedly, the following two playlists accompany a very specific genre for writing. However, medieval and early European music can fuel more than your mere historical epic — it can serve as a calming motor throughout your day, from its mathematically exquisite stanzas to its lulling Gregorian chant and lute-work.

Take more than just a step back in time with these mixes. Submerge yourself in the Dark Ages, for all its grit, orthodoxy, and simplicity.



Happy writing!:)

Music Mondays: Part XVIII

Summer’s here, and I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping in lately — which leaves me time to stay up late, pushing through the night to write. Today, I bring to you two of my favorite peaceful, late night music playlists to write to. Soft and simple, calm and lulling; I hope that these mixes bring you solace and creativity at all hours of the day.



Happy writing! 🙂

Music Mondays: Part XVI

In The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde famously says that “those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

In writing, there is no ugly meaning — even if the meaning is to expose the ugliness of moral corruption and vanity. Exposing, revealing, and reflecting can in no way indicate an ugly purpose; in fact, by Wilde’s standards it would be considered a beautiful meaning because it is composed as art for the sake of art.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” This rings true for all art. A piece that deals with themes of depravity or devolution is not morally corrupt; it is quite noncombatant. Art serves as a narrator, a biographer of what the world might be or could be.

Allow this playlist to serve as your narrator. Find out what your writing might be.


Happy writing! 🙂

Music Mondays: Part XV

From the moody to the broody to the downright angsty, writing can come with a lot of er…darker moments. So what better way to fuel your somber tragedies than to listen to some equally somber playlists?


Ah, the apocalypse. Ash. Dust. Wandering around wastelands. Trying to build a civilization from the ground up takes a good deal of sweat, blood, and wayward emotions, and this gem of a playlist will be your righthand man the day after the end of the world.


So you think the apocalypse is bad? Ha. Ha. Ahaha. Try hell. With this playlist, the most dire fates of your most devious characters will be made fiery, fierce, and undeniably excruciating.


Happy writing!:)