When I was a teenager I felt a strong urge to compose music. I read several books on composition and then spent hours at the piano writing short pieces. I had read that an accomplished composer usually writes away from the piano, but I loved to let my fingers find their way over the keys and discover harmonies and melodies. These piano lines were not without thought or drifting or artless. They had a shape and colour that came from a dialogue between my fingers and my imagination. My fingers had as much consciousness as my mind.
Now, as someone who spends most of his time writing books, I’m aware ...
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