Author's Note: Hello everyone, this is one of the first stories I've ever finished. For my love story in creative writing class, I handed in this story. I hope you all like it. Please remember to review.

Music is my Life

Krista Steward sat waiting for her french horn section to enter the song from the insanely long bars of rest. Picking up her pencil, she closed her eyes and let the music flow though her and on a blank sheet of notebook paper she had stashed away in her folder, she wrote.

It didn't matter to Krista if her anyone who read it would understand all the hidden images and feelings within it; she just wanted to portray all the emotion that aroused in her as she thought about music in general.

The director, Mr. Lovell, stopped the band several times because of the numerous mistakes the trumpets were making in notes and rhythm, but that just gave Krista a chance to write without interrupting her thoughts.

By the time class was over, Krista had finished her poetic rant. Ecstatic, she skipped to the band lockers and declared to her friends, "I've just finished my first song!"

"Really? What is it about?" One of Krista's closest friends, Angie, asked.

"It's about music. Here, read it!" Angie laughed nervously, not nearly as excited to read it as Krista was to have her read it, but curious to know what she wrote, so she took the paper.

At first, she couldn't read the paper. It was riddled with spelling and grammar errors that refused to be glanced over, so Angie stopped and search through her purse to find her pencil.

After fixing all the mistakes she could see, Angie reread the paper. "You have so many spelling errors in this, and it's more of a poem than a song."

"All songs are like poems when you put them on paper." Krista stated.

"It's very good." This was the kind of comment that Krista hated the most, but she would not lash out at her friends for not conjuring up ideas to help her improve it. It was not their fault that some people have no creativity. Then again, saying that Angie had a lack of creativity was not a fair assessment, but at the moment, she refused to accept that, for she was internally ranting about people not knowing how to give constructive criticism.

"Well, I'll see you later Angie." Krista said as she hugged her friend good bye.

Rushing over to the band lockers on the other side of the room where two of her other friends, Kelsey and Mary, Krista insisted they read her "poem".

Both, after reading her song stated, "It's good." All the enthusiasm she had earlier for her finished work was gone now.

"Are you going to major in music or an English major for your writing in college next year?" Mary's question was unexpected and unconsidered by Krista. Writing seemed implausible, for she didn't think her writing was good nor did she ever turn in her pieces the day it was due, but music something she didn't know if she would tread.

"I know I'm not going to do an English major, but I'm not sure about music yet."

After Krista was finally alone, nothing that happened seemed to fully have an effect on her, for her mind was playing with the idea with joining the college marching band. Two what if questions consumed most of her thoughts, 'What if I'm not good enough? What if I don't like it?'

Krista was not much of a competitor, and the fear of losing this wondrous feeling she got from being a part of the music was catastrophic.

Without realizing it, Krista was standing next to her car. School had ended a long time ago from the barren look of the parking lot, but then again, band kids tend to live at school.

Getting into her car, she drove herself home, suppressing the nagging question of what to do yet.

When Krista arrived at her house, she reached over to the passengers seat, dug out her diary notebook from her backpack, and began to make an attempt of organizing her thoughts to find a solution.

November 28, 2007 4:25p.m.

Where to start? I wrote a poem/song today. Of course, when my friends read it they all said, "It's good". What is that crap is that suppose to mean? I wish they would just give advice on how to make it better rather than not hurt my feelings. Heck, I feel better when Angie edits all my spelling errors and makes fun of me for it. *sigh* Oh well, I'll just bring it to my English teacher later and ask how I can improve it, since it's so short.

My friends (after they read my poem/song and I explain the reasons behind the story) asked if I was going to pursue music. I've been pondering about this all day now. Yes, music is something I have a passion for, but I will not lose the feelings I get from playing or hearing it because I let myself compete with others. Music isn't a composition for me; it's like a story, but only the listener can transfer what they're hearing into words to describe it. In the same sense, writers have to transfer the events conveying in their minds into words. Both cause the listener or reader to become immersed into an alternate reality that creates a different image for every person that hears or reads the story.

I'll finish up this entrée by writing my poem/song on these pages, so that when I close this book, I've made the statement to myself that this decision is final. Someday, I will write a musical piece conveying all my feels about how music is as important as air to me, but until then, this is all that I have to express those feelings:

Internal Beat

Euphonious music flows through me at a pace of a fading heartbeat.

I want to savor this for as long as I have it in within my grasp before the ripples of sound fade from my ears.

Life's rhythm steadily pushes time forward as the music rises and falls. This piece is so captivating that I wish for the rhythm to go against its nature and cease the flow of time.

Flowing like water into the depths of my soul, until it becomes one with my entity. This is a part of me, yet it's the reaction of the audience that makes me feel complete.

Observing the peaceful expressions on the audience's faces, I felt proud in knowing that this is my masterpiece.

As the music begins to fade, a smile creeps onto my face. Everyone listens closely as the words 'thank you' completes the piece.

Briefly, Krista stared at the last words scribbled into her diary before slowly closing the brown and pink floral notebook, and placed it back into her backpack.

Snatching the original copy of her poem/song from her backpack, she got out of the car, charged through the front door, climbed the stairs to the her room, went to the machine beside her printer, and placed the page at the top of the shredder, ready to tear it to shreds at any second.

Krista took a deep breath in as she let the paper fall. For now, only she would be able to enjoy the feelings that the music gave her, and that was all she would need to survive.