After the mountaintop: notes from the rubble pile

September 30, 2023; at the post-show party following the world premiere of my fifth opera.  I was on the mountaintop - an American composer celebrating a premier commissioned by an A-level house in Europe. I personally know composers who would do murder to check any of these boxes.

The plan ahead was scary and nebulous too, but clear in its ambition: turn this into something. But, what something? 

A new opera commission? That's a multi-year endeavor.  

A second European production? How attractive is an out-of-the-box show (in English)? 

A US premiere? That's the wild fucking west.  

What I really wanted was the clear, steady road to the one thing I’d always longed for: recognition. To be respected, talked to, talked about, and paid.

Always have a model, my first teacher told me. While he was primarily talking about a model for every piece, I had been looking for a model for this phase of my career. How should I dress and present myself? How should I behave in rehearsal? Should I even go to rehearsal? How do I lay the foundation for what's next?  I spoke to old teachers, old-timer composers, active European composers who were kind enough to offer a little time, but didn’t find a lot of answers; no roadmap, no master plan, no definitive advice. 

Where I am now is the composer mentor I needed then.  

And here's what I would have told myself:

1. Getting a second production could take as long as the premier production, so be patient.

2. Don’t bother trying to leverage the opera commission to get non-opera commissions. Different wavelengths entirely.

3. No one will care solely about the opera. You're going to have to present the whole package.

4. Be prepared to write for free, or to be paid in arrears if grant money comes in. You've done it before.

5.  Seek institutional support.

6.  Develop your mentoring and teaching chops.

7.  Income will be necessary, and it probably won't come from composing.

8.  Expect to pay more in taxes and freelance health insurance premiums than you think.

9. Rarified air can be suffocating.

10.  If you’ve done your writing and editing work correctly, in rehearsal you will only need to be a cheerleader, or a reference.

11.  Present yourself in the best light of your own standards. Dress-stress is a waste of time.

12.  Enjoy yourself. Have some fucking fun.

13.  Email is fine as a lead-in, but talk to people.

14.  Get your house in order.

15.  If you're disconnected with those in your life,  reconnect. 

16.  Be very careful about external validation.

17.  This is not the mountaintop; and even if it is, it still isn't. 

Those were the basics. I didn’t do any of this.

Here’s the hard stuff.

It took me 13 months after the show closed to admit that I had lost my way. I wrapped the success of the show around my entire identity.  Everyone and everything else took a backseat.  There was no Plan B (or C, D, or E).  When it sank in that it wasn't happening the way I envisioned, the house of cards began to collapse. I tried to keep it up but there was no real foundation. My marriage suffered.  Our finances suffered. I suffered.

What lies in the rubble?

•  My cut-throat hustle mentality, which I was neither good at nor did I enjoy.

•  The belief that success was to be externally validated.

•  Assumptions about sequentiality, merit, or logic as the path of said success.

•  An artistic identity forged to fight battles that were either not real or were long over.

•  Defining myself through my artistic output.

•  Thinking that I could support my family as a composer.

•  Buying into the “lone wolf” myth while, at the same time, trying to network.

•  Holding back from publishing out of preciousness or mistrust.

•  Assuming that I understood the industry.

•  Believing that being good enough, serious enough and driven enough would matter. Then raging when it didn't.

 So there I was, glowing at the afterparty,  at the edge of the cliff.  Collapse.

Now what?

It's been 20 months since the premiere. I’ve cleared most of the debris; there was no foundation, but there is bare ground. I'm seeding. I'll see what takes root. For what does, I'll invite others to tend with me. It doesn't smart as much anymore, but is more like a dull ache that I'm embarrassed to have.  I keep examining it to make sure it's not an excuse to try again in the old vein. 

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