This Scene with Sergei and Clair

Clair walked ahead of him and opened her door. “Thanks for dinner by the way, it was lovely.” She threw over her shoulder.

“Don’t mention it.” She heard float from behind her as he followed her in.

“Drink?” Clair asked as she gestured towards her sofa.

“Yeah, a coffee would be nice.” As he instead seated himself at her baby grand.  Causing Clair to pause and stare for a moment to see what he was doing.  With the delicacy of a surgeon the man lifted the lid and placed his fingers over the keys.  Clair was about to yell at him she realized as he started playing Beethoven’s fifth in A minor.

Fascinated Clair stopped and watched as this handsome man closed his eyes and let his fingers glide over her keys.

“You tune her yourself don’t you?” he said under his breath.

Clair hadn’t realized that she had moved closer until she heard his voice which startled her out of her stunned fascination with his playing.

“Yes, I do.”

He nodded. “You like your tones a hair sharper than a tuner would leave it.”

Clair felt the tug in her heart, and terrified more than fascinated, she made her way swiftly into the kitchen and started the process of brewing coffee.

Clair realized that her hands were shaking as she placed the filter into the machine.  The sounds of his playing floating clearly into the kitchen.  His technique was nearly flawless, his form, the pressure of his fingers and the invisible nuances of playing an instrument as complex as the piano all in line with the intent and purpose of the piece.  Clair took a deep breath as the sounds of one of her favorite works moved over her ears and assailed her heart and soul.

It had been like that when Johnny would sing to her.  His voice would incite feelings of wonder, awe and joy.  But his voice wasn’t the instrument of her heart, not like the piano.  Listening to someone pay homage to her liege as Sergei was, raised her level of involvement to about three times of where it was when Johnny would sing to her.

‘Rapture as a noun meaning elation.  Elation as a noun meaning happiness, euphoria, glee, intoxication, jubilation which leads back to—‘

Clair’s eyes popped open as she realized what she was doing.

Shaking even harder she continued preparing the coffee.

When the task was done she walked into the living room and sat on her sofa and listened to him play, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.  She got to watch the play of his back muscles as he moved.  He sat ramrod straight. Edwina would love his form, she thought passively.  He kept his wrists firm and his fingers loose.  And he was playing as if he could see the music in his head.  Eyes closed.  Clair did that sometimes, but that was because of the sheer ecstasy she received from playing.  Biting her fingernails, Clair watched as he continued.  Then without thinking she got up and sat next to him on her bench.  There was barely enough room for her and she completed his melodic line with the under pairing for the piece.  Edwina used to do this for her all the time when she was trying to find her way through a piece.  It was akin to what women did to under lead a man while teaching ballroom dance.

Sergei’s eyes opened and he looked over at Clair as she played.  Her eyes were on the keys.  The look on her face as she played made his breath catch.  It was sublime, the pleasure she received from this instrument.  It wasn’t the right time or the right place but he couldn’t help what he did next.  He took her chin into his hand and leaned over to kiss her.

Other Posts on this book:

That Scene with Sergei and Clair

Sergei

Clair Fair

Love is Queen

So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

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Sergei

Clair was admiring her shoes in the mirror when she heard the loud insistent knocking on the door.  She jumped and then started over to it.  His knock wasn’t quite a cop-knocking because it wasn’t the pounding normally associated with cops, but it was only a few notches down from that.  Clair opened the door and there stood one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.  He certainly hadn’t looked this dapper when they had first met. 

Sergei stood on the other side of the door with a single rose held against his chest, which was covered in a dark blue linen shirt that made his ice blue eyes really pop.  The slacks were also a linen it seemed and in the same shade.  His hair, which he wore just a touch long, was combed over and parted on the side.  It was such a nerd thing to do and it was one of the cutest things Clair had ever seen.  He stood ramrod straight, almost military straight as he let his eyes roam over her.  Clean shaven, his angular jaw line and ridiculous cheekbones were put on display framing his full lips as he softly smiled at her, finally meeting her eyes.

“Good evening Clair.” He drawled smoothly.

For a split second as she stared into his eyes as he smiled down at her, his deep voice caressing her, Clair did something she had never done before.  She went completely blank, no thought would cross her mind as she stared into his eyes.  She felt her mouth open but no words came out.  And that was when panic had started to set in.  Blinking rapidly she stood in the door facing him as her jaw flapped without voicing anything at all. 

Sergei arched a brow at her seemingly enjoying her display.  Mercifully he asked, “Can I come in?”

The question registered and Clair solemnly nodded and stepped aside so he could do just that. As he passed her, the frozen ‘deer in headlights’ feeling she had started to fade.  What in the hell was that, she frantically asked herself.  I acted like a deaf mute for a second there, he’s not that hot!! She could feel the last thought actually being yelled in her mind.  With a deep breath and a concert smile she turned to the large man that was standing in her living room.

“Sorry about that.” She said briefly.

He shrugged casually. “About what, it’s a compliment to render a woman dumb, deaf and blind for a second.” He paused and thought about it some. “Or it’s very sad.” He frowned as he thought about the other end of that.

Other Posts on this book:

That Scene with Sergei and Clair

Sergei

Clair Fair

Love is Queen

So a Psychic and a Rocket Scientist Walk into a Bar

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Smashwords

Clair Fair

 ‘Rapture.  As a noun meaning delight.’

Clair thought to herself as her fingers flew over the piano keys as if she didn’t guide them. 

‘Delight as a noun meaning enjoyment, ecstasy, enchantment, contentment, joyance, relish, which leads back to rapture.’ 

Since Clair discovered the piano and the joy inherit in this instrument that could whisper and yell, sigh and resonate, she spent her spare time trying to find the word that defined the sublime elation that filled her when she played.  She searched thesauruses, other languages, symbols, whatever she could get her hands on.  But not a single word alone described this feeling of release and bliss that she experienced while she played.  So her mind would string together all of these words to try and express what was being experienced.

‘Bliss, as a noun meaning ecstasy, euphoria, felicity, heaven, paradise, which leads back to rapture.’

She was playing Mozart’s piano concerto no. 20 in D minor.  It was one of her favorites to practice on at home and loosened her up when she was ready to compose her own works.  No. 20 in D minor was special to her.  This one had been the culmination piece of her first full concert at the age of 15 for a local arts festival.

After her Aunt Mary introduced Clair to the piano it had been the passion of her existence.  She had played throughout middle school with a mix of lessons with her Aunt Mary and whoever was available.  When she had entered high school, Clair had applied for a work-study program that allowed her to spend fewer hours at school and more time practicing her instrument.  Her dedication had been noticed by several of the local musicians as Aunt Mary had made it her job to find teachers that could operate at the level that Clair had reached and could carry her beyond.

That had been when she had met Edwina Powell.  Edwina was a large maternal woman with dubious ethnicity.  She was dark in coloring with her black hair and dark brown eyes.  But it was her tan skin tone that made it very hard to place her into any particular race. Edwina had been teaching pianoforte for 15 years in the small high school in Taos New Mexico.  It wasn’t until you went to her home for private lessons did you see the fruits of a 20 year long professional classical pianist career.  She had played everywhere, Carnegie Hall, the Kennedy Center, Sydney, Paris, Japan.  Her walls were lined with accolades and world championships.

The day Clair had met Edwina had changed the course of her life.  Before that day, Clair had believed that she would not be able to become a professional artist.  She was told by school counselors and most other adults that choosing to become a professional artist was foolish and would not support her well. Everyone agreed with exception of her Aunt Mary and her mother who had both encouraged Clair to follow her passion and to ignore the call of material wealth in lieu of happiness. Still Clair had been undecided until she had her first meeting with Edwina Powell.

The first meeting had been at Clair’s home with her mother and aunt.  Ms. Powell had walked in like a ruling queen.  Her stature had been perfect, her clothing, hair and makeup immaculate. She had asked for Aunt Mary to leave so that she and Clair could speak privately.

The woman had instructed Clair to sit at her piano and then circled her seemingly looking for deficiencies.

“Clair.” She stated clearly in a Spanish accented, deep feminine voice. “That is not your full name.”

The woman waited a moment or two and then continued. “Clair is short for something, what is your full name, as it is written on your birth certificate.”

Clair had hesitated, hating what she was about to say out loud. “It’s” she paused taking a long labored breath. “Clairvoyance”, she sighed, “Clairvoyance Olivia Warren.”

The woman only stared pointedly at Clair, “This shame’s you.” She stated. “It is empowerment, a characteristic that is unique only to you.  You should embrace this name of yours.”

Moving to stand next to Clair she stared pointedly at the instrument before them both. “Does this shame you as well?”

Clair turned to her quickly denial in her heart. “No, there’s nothing embarrassing about a piano, or playing it.”

The woman sat next to Clair at the bench. “What is this instrument to you?”

Clair thought about it long and hard staring at the instrument in question.  Softly she ran her fingers over a few keys and the day her Aunt Mary introduced her to it flashed starkly in her mind.  Her entire body was filled with the euphoria that had started that day.  Her Aunt’s words ringing in her ears, ‘this does not care what color you are, it only knows music, it only knows joy.’ With that fresh in her mind, Clair had answered Ms. Powell with the only word that had summed it all up for her.

“Freedom.”

Ms. Powell had nodded. “You’ll do Clairvoyance.”

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Learning to Not be Ruled by Genre

It is a long road that I believe never truly ends.  That road is that of a writer when finding their voice.  The best of the best say that the most important part of this journey is the journey.  No matter what never stop writing. For many writers that is almost like saying never stop breathing.  But as an asthmatic I can tell you that breathing is not always a guarantee. And over the years my writing has come and gone like a breath in some instances. Whiffed away without any hesitation or thought. My well seemingly run very dry.

However my mind still swam with scenarios of unfulfilled passions and desires. The human spirit needs passion and desire.  Creation is as much a part of living as the breathing and the beating. Most seem to not notice that life is nothing if not a lesson in sheer natural brutality. The elements that make us up crammed together in clumps and fits.  Our very systems demand the use of words like force, beat, move. As they say the struggle is real. And it is a struggle.  Nothing worth having has ever been born politely. It comes in a haze of blood, sweat, and tears screaming its battle cry ready to be heard, listened to and engaged. Life does not ask for the fight, life demands it. So the only failure is in trying to deny the fight. Because then you are truly denying life.

When I decided I wanted to try my hand as a writer I was sure that I wanted to write romance. I had a game plan like I normally do. I wanted to start as a romance writer then move into more science fiction or fantasy. As offensive as the thought is I was young and foolish enough to believe romance writing was an easier place to start. I was very very foolish years ago. As many know the genre is not well thought of by literature critics. However I dare to say that writing romance may be even harder because of how it is thought of.

It reminds me of professional wrestling in a lot of ways.  The trick to professional wrestling is that there is no trick. Its hard work, dedication to a goal and a performance. It eats up life because the only way to get better like with any craft is to continue to hone it. And yet it is not very well thought of by many people who view it as fake.  In many ways similar to how some authors view genre writers. The analogy forces me to think about the limitations provided just by perception. Because the barriers are not one sided.  All are affected by the perception and the need to justify it. As human beings we love balance and we like to know the answer. We subconsciously lean to a lie of perception as much as we may lean to the truth. Just as there is no way to convince gravity to stop working for a wrestler, there is no way to easily construct a palpable endearing emotion laden first kiss for a romance author. It is a sport of conditioning, practice, and training.  The road is long and the culmination is to tell the perfect story.

I now know that there is no such thing as an easy writing. The quality writing, the change the world stuff is a labor of intense love, commitment and selfless devotion. It is staying up all night to finish the most crucial scene you have ever written.  But they all are aren’t they? And the answer is yes, every single one IS the most crucial scene you have ever written.

I was given the advice that my heart knew was true before it was even given.  Write what you love. I started writing because of love, I write about love.  But I was looking for the trick, I was asking gravity to stop working for a moment. Sometimes in a craft you get completely immersed in your tools instead of the art giving the tool the power. It becomes about fitting in, coloring in the lines and less about expressing your unique voice. The truth is the man behind the curtain is in fact just a man.  A man dedicated and committed enough to an idea that he was able to convince the world he was an all-powerful wizard. He went outside of genre, outside what the limitations of a man should be.  In the process he stopped allowing his tools to limit him, he instead gave them new power.

I was a visual artist in high school and became a vocalist and music composer. I noticed early in my art studies that I was better with colors than with black and white.  What I understood before I left was that this was a myth I had told myself. My mind was so enrapt with technique that art was not being made. When I went into music I noticed the same. I was concerned with vocal replication of other artists and not concerned with my own sound. The girl is hardheaded. Somewhere in my junior year of high school, somewhere in the middle of performing Deep River, somewhere in the middle of composing my 3rd work technique faded and art finally took form. The moment is indescribable. For a split second you hear clearly, you feel deeply.  The world is beautiful, lovely. You absolutely matter and what you have to say bears weight and has the meaning and affluence of a living viable human soul and spirit laced throughout it. It connects you to the now, the past the future and the fountain of infinite bliss and wisdom. Pure as you and I are meant to be.

The point is have influences, mimic them as you need, read the art books, understand the style, refine your craft; use your tools. Before its over though make sure the voice is your own.  A lesson I have to teach myself over and over again. This is my ultimate love letter to remind myself why I should never give the tools power but instead use the art to empower them. I'm writing this so that when I start to forget and I'm worried about book sales, or another press or agent saying no that I stick to my declaration and follow the advice of knowledgeable others.  I embrace these tools and make them an extension of myself and what I need this world to see and understand. That I listen to the beating, pounding pace of my heart and stay with the fight. That I fill what I do with my will, my spirit; my spark. With my love, always with my love.