What is with Schubert?

I just came across something that bugged me. I was doing a google search on one of my favorite people (who happens to be an accomplished musician), and this blog talks about the musician's favorite composer, who is Schubert. I also heard this summer from another musician (not as famous, but will be one day) that his favorite composer is Schubert. Both come from Juilliard. Both live in NYC. (why this is important, who knows, but it might play a part. you never know.)

What's the deal with that? Am I missing out on something? Am I some ignoramus who doesn't know real music? Am I hopelessly stuck enjoying the music of a man who seemed to have as much estrogen in his feelings as testosterone?

Am I some bass playing nerd who can't understand the world outside spiccato playing? Am I like a lumbering, insensitive fool (which describes far too many bassists) who isn't sophisticated enough to enjoy Schubert?

I feel lost in my likes and dislikes, and also in my "yeah, he's nice" responses to composers. I feel like I am missing out on something, like I'm the kid in school who THINKS they are cool, but then they find out they AREN'T. And then after that, the kid is scared to ever think that any one likes them AT ALL, for fear of rejection or something. It's much easier to think that no one likes you and just deal with those feelings of rejection, rather than thinking things are ok, and then getting slapped in the face and then laughed at.

I read so many music blogs on a daily basis, and find myself enjoying them all, learning immense amounts of information, and thinking in new ways. I also, at the same time think, "What the *$@# am I doing WRITING? I should not be doing this, at all. I'm not up for it."

I write approximately 2 reviews a week for NUVO. They are no more than 200 words each. I don't write magazine articles. I don't write for a newspaper, where I have more room. I write short concise clips, and I'm rather good at them. Just go to NUVO's website and do a search on me, and you'll find my clippings, and 95% of them I'm proud of. I always always have room to improve, for sure. But I am pleased with my work, in general.

Yet I can't ever imagine being able to do full on huge reviews, or say something that someone would notice, other than the occasional good friend commenting on my blog. Not that I don't mind that---I love that, and welcome it, absolutely. And today even a stranger wrote a comment, and that's great too.

I am strangely hoping to one day have my writings looked at as good, yet will anyone think it's good if they first read all my blabbings here? Seriously, this blog is more like a diary of where I've been, what I'm doing, and what most recently made me cry. It's not some profound statement about music and it's inner properties and how composing is like using selective judgment in the verbalization of one's thoughts in an orderly manner, and blah blah blah. I can't come up with phrases that you just say "wow" at. Instead I am a country bumpkin of sorts, as though I am smiling and showing off my missing teeth, speaking without holding any kind of a degree with a child on my hip who has crapped its pants and I can't be bothered to change it yet while the pitbull smells the kids butt and I'm in a mumu fixing my husband a turkey pot pie and I just think I've hit the pinnacle in life when I think Thomas Kincaid's art is the shit. Yet during all this I want people to take me seriously. How can that happen though?????

What is wrong with me? Why do I think I can be a good writer? I can write 200 words well. Everything else though, goes downhill after that and turns in to mushy wushy "I feel this way" and "I feel that way" and I never have anything concrete to say, nothing of substance or significance. It's all about me and whether or not I had to get kleenex out of my purse, and how I think this music is boring because it's not emotional enough, and basically I can't set my feelings aside for ONE SECOND EVER. Everything HAS to be about me, or else I can't seem to relate to it. This is what makes my writing, up to and past a certain point, shitty. No other word for it. It's true. Just a bunch of Dr. Phil woe is me I'm on my period so watch out mood number one comin' atcha and mood number two and three ain't too far behind. Ridiculous.

So, now that I am sufficiently depressed thinking about my writing, I will go and read great music blogs that continue to make me realize how poor my writing is and how immature my tastes are how unsophisticated I am, and I will then cease writing altogether.