Professor Sebastian sits at the edge of the desk and clasps his hands. “Today, we’re going to talk about point of view,” he says in a firm voice. I’m curious to see how he differs from our previous professor in terms of how he instructs us on songwriting.
“A point of view describes the relationship between the audience and the singer. Here’s a case: a story of a man’s selfless devotion to the woman he loves.”
My eyes move around the room to look at everyone’s faces. All eyes are focused forward, mouths are sealed shut, and everyone else has their notes ready. I sit properly.
“Let’s call him Joe,” the professor continues. “Joe loves this woman, but as listeners of his story, we don’t know that because we don’t know them. Only the songwriter can tell you that story...”
Professor Sebastian tenses up and walks to the center.
“What we want to do here is to express an idea. What am I going to say? Which approach should I take? From personal experience? Perhaps you’ve had your heart broken, and as a result, you wish to get your feelings out? Maybe you’d like to talk about your family or share a moment of sadness or an expression of gratitude.
“I’m sure your other professors have gone over this with you, but remember this: It doesn’t matter if you use some textbook methods or certain steps anymore. Everything you write must be youMy heart sings. I’m overjoyed and thrilled that I can hardly contain myself. Professor Sebastian takes a unique approach to the lesson, as one would expect from a famous composer and songwriter. Professor Clarke's classes were also informative, but they were never in-depth and personal. My attempts to suppress my attraction to him have failed miserably, and it is now rushing back into my chest.
“The singer can simply be the storyteller. Joe loves her, but she’s unable to reciprocate his feelings. The singer will now call you to observe Joe and the woman. This is referred to as a third-person narrative.”
Everyone, including myself, begins taking notes. I desperately need this because I’m terrible at writing songs.
“And the third-person narrator is the creator,” he proceeds. “The narrator has complete access to the subject’s mind. He is aware of everything. We’re looking at a distant view in this type of story. It’s not intimate because you only know Joe loves this woman. However, you are not Joe or this woman. As a result, we will shift the focus to what will be referred to as the first-person narrative. We now have a relationship, you and I, the audience and the singer. Now, we are familiar with one another. A good point of view expresses how you feel. I am Joe, and you are the woman, so I can tell you what happened to me.”
Professor Sebastian’s eyes pause at me with a burning passion that has me melting. I feel as though everything he said was directed at me.
Eventually, he averts his gaze and then returns to his desk. “Create a journey. Connect with the listener. Who am I to you? Who is speaking to whom? These are the two questions that every song must answer...”
***
I’m not confident that I’ll ever write the best song. But something caught my attention while listening to Professor Sebastian’s class. He spoke as if he had already fallen hard for someone. And I can only think of one person.
Stella Pierce. His ex-fiancée. I listened to her songs and fell in love with her singing whenever I heard her. She can connect with her audience. Her songwriting is equally heartfelt. It’s no surprise he proposed to her.
He dated someone like her, who is already successful, sophisticated, and comes from a family of artists. But what happened? Why did they split up? Is she the reason he left the mainstream?
I enter the practice room. It’s a dedicated space where students can get some quiet time to make music.
I sit in front of the piano, placing an empty music score on the sheet holder.
According to the professor, to establish a connection between the audience and the singer, write from experience and feelings.
What exactly am I feeling?
I close my eyes and exhale deeply.
I see the faces of my parents. My dad’s smile and my mom’s embrace. We were not wealthy, but we were content with what we had. But they left the world, and I was suddenly all alone. Life has been difficult for me without them.
And that person as well. Him.
He’s the one who left the world a long time ago... He was a part of my past that I never told anyone about. I kept him hidden in my heart by deliberately shutting off my memory bank.
Why do I remember him now?
I take up my pencil and begin to write...
I. I have been on this road beforeOne time in my life,It is a place towards the heavensA chance to see your face again ChorusI can’t buy the timeDespite the millions in my hands,But I don’t want to go backThis is the only way to see youI will walk this road for youII. We tried to make our lives perfectBut imperfection is all that’s perfectSay you want me to continueI will go wherever you want me toI play C major on the piano, the first chord that comes to mind. The melody leads me to an E minor and then a G. I hum the first line.
If only they could hear and see what I was saying. If only they could be here...
This is my soul. My emotions.
I stop. My tears stream down my face.
“Having trouble?”I flinch, glancing hastily at the door, where I see Professor Sebastian leaning against the frame. His arms were folded over his chest.
Professor Sebastian’s classes with us are on Mondays. It’s been a few days since we had dinner together, and the only time I’ve seen him at school was earlier today. I’m not sure why I’m counting down the days, though.
“Oh, no, sir. I’m just trying out a new song.”
He walks in and stops a few feet away from me. The force of his strong presence sends shivers down my spine. I feel like I might pass out at any minute.
He observes my music sheet. “Do you mind if I look?”
“This is just a rough draft. I don’t have a bridge yet.” I hand him the sheet, and he studies it.
After a brief pause, he asks, “When did you write this?”
“Just now.”
“Not bad.” He returns the lyrics to me. “Is someone you know no longer here?”
“Something like that,” I say simply.
“Hmm... The stanzas are fine, but something is missing. The chorus hits differently. It’s good, but the last line seems forced. Overall, it’s simple, yet acceptable.”
I smile. This is the first time I’ve heard someone say something positive about my lyrics. “I’ll revise it. Thank you very much, professor. Your lecture today is very enlightening.”
He smiles back and presses a piano key. The sound resonates in all four corners of the room. “One more. What note is this?”
“That’s an E flat.”
He smirks. “And this?”
“It is an F sharp.” I giggle. “I’m not taking that perfect pitch test again. I feel kind of dumb.”
He chuckles, and his laughter induces a delightful knot in my belly. “It’s not dumb. It’s incredible. Hey, I’ll show you something.”
I stare at him, perplexed. “Huh?”
“I’m going to play.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I get up from the bench chair and move to the side.
Professor Sebastian sits down, and his long fingers play the keys effortlessly. The song is a soft, quite familiar tune that touches my heart deeply. It’s as though I’m being carried on calm waters and swayed by a gentle breeze.
“That’s my song! The one I played in class last week,” I say in shock.
“I had some ideas, if that’s okay.” He continues to play.
I nod. “It’s mine, but it’s different.”
It isn’t flawed, and the current style is more accurate. He fills in the missing notes I’ve been figuring out.
“I don’t mind. It sounds perfect. You remember the chords. You just heard it once.”
He glances up at me, but his hands continue to play. “Years and years of practice. It’s one of the advantages of having the absolute pitch.”
I keep listening as he continues. I’m completely astounded.
His play is flawless and becoming more fluid. It’s expressive, which gives it depth and seeks to connect... to communicate.
He has me spellbound. It’s as if my soul has become tangible in ways I’ve never felt before.
Without thinking, I reach around to touch him from behind, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and laying my head on his back.
My painful memories come flooding into my mind. As I close my eyes, a single tear rolls down my cheek.
The music abruptly stops playing.
“Anya?”
I hugged him more tightly. I’m not ready to let go just yet.
“Anya...”
I snap back to reality.
“Oh, God.” I push away from him, wiping my tears.
Stupid. Stupid.
What the hell did I just do? What would he think of me now? He could even have me expelled.
Goodbye, scholarship.
“I’m so sorry, professor. I was moved by our play. Please forgive my rudeness—”
“Anya,” he says calmly. “Are you crying?”
I shake my head. “I just got carried away.”
“Don’t worry.” He gets up from the bench and strides toward me. “It’s okay.”
My puffy eyes meet his. “It’s really beautiful. But I shouldn’t have held you. It was inappropriate—”
“Forget about it,” he cuts me off. “If you want to cry, then cry. I locked the door, and the room is soundproof.”
I let out a sigh of relief.
Professor Sebastian leans against the wall, with only a meter between us. I take a seat at the piano.
“What happened?” he asks, breaking the sudden silence.
“I composed that piece in memory of the people I lost. I got too emotional.”
“So I was right? You have lost someone.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, hoping he won’t ask any further.
“Have you told Kristoff?”
“That I’m a crybaby?” I crack up without mirth. “I’m not really like this, professor. Only when I was playing alone.”
“Come on, Anya,” he murmurs. “We already know each other well enough that I can’t point out how familiar we are if you still haven’t already noticed. Just call me by my name when no one is around.”
“But, Professor—”
“It’s Julian, Anya. Please.”
“Fine. Julian“It’s also referred to as privacy. But, yes, I couldn’t agree more.”
“You know, I like this.” A smile plays on my lips.
He cocks his head. “Like what?”
“This. I feel like I can talk to you about anything,” I say openly. “I don’t have many friends. There are only two, and you already know who they are.” I grin at him, implying that my awkwardness has subsided. “Do you think we would have talked like this if we hadn’t met at the party?”
His lips curve up. “I think so.”
“Really? How?”
“Because it’s you