I thought by this point in my life I’d know how to write. I thought it would come easy by now, that I’d know the ropes and the tricks of the trade.
“A man’s got to know his limitations,” Dirty Harry once said. I do know those. I have plenty.
I know that I can’t count on my muse (for want of a better word) showing up at the appointed time. Sometimes she’s there, sometimes not. When you’re on deadline, though, it doesn’t really matter. When you’re on deadline, you can’t afford to have writer’s block. You have to crank out the words anyway. The deadline is often your friend. It forces you to write, no matter what. Without the deadline I might not ever write.
You can optimize the chances for the arrival of your muse (sleep, a good breakfast, coffee, etc.) but you can’t make her show. Sometimes the material you’re working with doesn’t inspire the words to flow, but even when it does that doesn’t mean they will.
I know that it isn’t over until it’s over. You can be writing an article that wouldn’t fly in a junior high school essay contest, you can be wondering why you ever thought you could be a writer, you can be wondering what it is, exactly, that you’re trying to say, but if you keep chipping away at it, fixing small things, finding a better word here or there, or work on the punctuation, the article can turn around at the very last second and become something you’re proud of.
I’m often proudest of articles that to the average reader couldn’t possibly seem special in any way. That’s because as the writer, I know what went into it and what the odds were of it coming off at all. You’ve made lemonade, maybe not even very good lemonade, out of lemons.
I also know that most readers can’t tell the difference between my good and bad stuff. I guess that’s kind of cynical, but it’s true. It can also be a relief of sorts knowing that no one, or few, will notice when you’re not on your game. It takes the pressure off the writing, allows you to relax and then, presto — what do you know? — you’re writing well.
classical life 
Not surprisingly, all that is exactly translatable to those of us who practice each day for tonight’s performance. And even though we hope to please our listeners, the real joy is in the act of doing it and the understanding we share with our colleagues who are also doing it with us.
It’s a very personal joy, even as we share it with the world…
My music criticism teacher at the Peabody Conservatory, Elliott Galkin, used to tell us that every article we wrote was a “performance.” There’s a lot of truth in that.
I’ve been a fan of yours since the Los Angeles Times days with Martin Bernheimer. Your writing is always clear, direct and *always* give me a sense of what listening to the concert in the hall was like.
I wish you’d have gotten the LAT job after Mr. Bernheimer left……
Thanks, Henry. I’ve wished that I had gotten that job too, many a time, but I probably wasn’t ready for it. What’s more, these days my newspaper is doing better than the Times. As the world turns …
You are a top notch writer, Tim. I have always known that and have also noticed how you continue to grow. You never rest on your laurels but, rather, you push on and forge new territory. The Register is fortunate to have you on their staff.
Indeed. And lately, it’s been great to see your writings several times a week in the Register and have it not be about Lady Gaga.
I’ve read various people whose profession is that of a writer, either in the media or as an author, saying through the years that penning something new can be a chore, that writer’s block is a hurdle they often have to wrestle with. Their complaints always startle me because such professionals strike me as skilled and prolific enough — including you, Tim — that such a qualm makes me think of a top chef complaining about how he doesn’t look forward to going into the kitchen, preparing fine cuisine and then enjoying it later on. Actually, come to think of it — with that analogy in mind (haha) — I guess anything can become a chore that no one welcomes or looks forward to—sort of like doing homework on a Sunday for school the next day.
Incidentally, I was interested in your impressions of a bit of new music, Branwell Tovey’s “Totem.” Again, why must so many newer compositions within the genre of classical (compared with, say, pop, rock, rap, R&B or country) always be so, as you describe “Totem,” avant-garde? It’s like all composers of this era believe that in order to be sophisticated and relevant, their pieces have to be obscure. Their writing has to be oh-so-inscrutable. They must believe that anything that contains some memorability — some will use the word “catchy” — is tacky or undignified. Well, that’s nice. But, sadly, count me among those who’ll likely respond to such pieces the way you did towards Tovey’s composition: “I don’t yearn to hear it again.”
Tim is the best. Period.