Handing a new piece to a conductor feels a little like handing someone your journal and trying to act normal about it.
You want to say, “Oh this? It’s nothing,” while also wanting them to understand everything. Every late night you couldn’t sleep thinking about it, every moment you thought you had something true and then immediately doubted it. You want them to hear what you meant, not just what you wrote, which, as it turns out, are not always the same thing.
There is a very specific anxiety that shows up right before the first rehearsal. It is not dramatic. It is quiet and persistent, like a small dog that will not stop following you around the house. (I know a bit about that.) And in this case, you are not even in the room. You have sent the files. You have done your part. You have said, “Let me know if you have any questions,” which is code for please tell me everything is okay but also do not tell me anything is wrong.
You are at home. Waiting.
This is where things get strange.
Because when you are not there, your imagination fills the room for you. Not in a helpful way. In your version, you messed it all up. The balance is off. Someone stops and says, “What is this supposed to be?” The conductor frowns slightly. People are polite, but there is a feeling.
You try to distract yourself. You answer emails. You fold laundry. You dust your studio…because you know, that helps you compose better for the next one. You check your phone every few minutes for a message that has not arrived. You tell yourself that no news is good news, which is comforting for about thirty seconds.
Then the other thoughts come in.
Maybe it is too complicated. Maybe it is too simple. Maybe that section you believed in does not actually work. Maybe you should have rewritten the ending. Maybe the whole thing needed another month. Or six. Because when you were writing, it felt alive in a protected way. You could adjust things. You could believe with a bit more effort you could make it work. You could trust that the pacing made sense because you felt it. There is a lot of faith involved. Possibly a little denial.
Now, somewhere else, real people are going to find out if that was true.
And this is the moment where your brain becomes deeply unhelpful. It offers you a steady stream of certainty about things it cannot possibly know. They hate it. They are confused. You have ruined everything. You will never work again.
These thoughts are not useful. They are also very convincing.
Meanwhile, something else is happening.
The music is becoming real. It is no longer just yours. Other people are holding it now, sometimes a little awkwardly, like passing a fragile bowl around a table. The conductor might stop and adjust something. A player might ask a question that reveals where you were not as clear as you thought. Or they might understand something instinctively that you did not even know you had written.
You are not there to hear it, which somehow makes it both worse… and better.
Eventually, something breaks the silence. A message comes in. Or enough time passes that you realize the world has not ended. Maybe the conductor writes, “Great first read today,” which you will analyze like it is a coded message. What does “great” mean? What does “first read” mean? Is there something they are not saying?
Or maybe they ask a question. And strangely, this is a relief. Because now the piece has edges. It has met reality. But yes…you still reached for that chocolate when you saw the question mark on the text.
If you can soften, even a little, you begin to see what is actually happening. This is not a verdict. It is a beginning. The piece is meeting other people. It is being shaped, clarified, sometimes misunderstood, and sometimes unexpectedly brought to life in ways you could not have predicted.
Somewhere, in a room you are not in, someone is playing your notes. Breathing them. Trying to make sense of them. And even if it is imperfect, it is real.
You are still a little fragile. Probably more than a little.
But you are no longer alone with it.
The piece has entered the world, imperfect and breathing, and somehow that is both terrifying and exactly what you were hoping for all along.