Shostakovich and a Haughty Old Lady - A Short Story

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Shostakovich and a Haughty Old Lady - A Short Story

Post by medusaspath on Thu Mar 04, 2010 1:47 am

Okay, before I say anything else, I want to make it very clear that the subject title is NOT the title of this story, lol. I honestly have no idea what to call it, so if anyone has any ideas, feel free. I just named it something that might attract readers.

Anyway, I want to submit this for publication somewhere. Therefore, I would appreciate detailed critique. I will take into account all criticism, even if I don't put it all into action. Don't force critique if you don't have any though. If you just wanna say you liked it, hated it ( Sad ), something felt missing, suggestions for world play, etc, feel free. Of course, most important is any grammatical errors you see, especially ones that aren't debatable (like some comma use, etc.). To submit something with an egregious error reflects so badly, there's really no excuse. I've checked it over plenty, but I'm paranoid, so a multitude of discerning writer eyes puts my soul at ease, lol.

K, story:

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The day was intended to be spent as an unstructured meandering of the city. My mother and I had given our trust to Manhattan, expecting that viable and intriguing opportunities would be in full bloom at every corner. The city did not violate our faith in its endless host of assorted cultural offerings. After a while of merely enjoying a casual stroll amidst the hodgepodge of people, sounds, and smells, my father called to inform us that the New York Philharmonic would be playing the music of Shostakovich at Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center. Thanks to my father’s avid and eclectic musical interests, as well as a life long training in piano, I had grown up with an extremely varied spectrum of musical taste. Classical music was and will always be a perennial favorite for me. So, needless to say, this was going to be the event of the day. My mother was enthusiastic about it too; she was never opposed to anything of clear cultural significance, not to mention the fact that my exuberance wasn’t something she was going to try to deny me of.
So, off we went to Avery Fisher Hall. I had never listened to classical music in such an esteemed setting before. The closest I ever came was the multitude of band, choral, and orchestra concerts that I was involved in at school. I was a high school newcomer at the time, with about 4 years experience of such concerts that involved a majority of languid performers. And yes, I was young, about 14 years old. I was dressed as one would expect a young teenager to be dressed: beat up sneakers, blue jeans torn at the knees, some non-descript t-shirt, and a black zip up sweater. Grungy, but demure I suppose. Now, let’s make one thing straight: I have the utmost respect for such venues, and have subsequently dressed accordingly for these occasions. But that day, the idea of going to such a concert never crossed my mind, nor my mother’s. Still, I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of experiencing the atonal delight of Shostakovich unconfined by headphones. Ultimately, the power and importance of the music makes the significance of attire pale into oblivion.
I was in legitimate ecstasy when we entered the building. Mesmerized by an atmosphere of devotion and appreciation for music, I silently vowed that these concerts were something that I would have to incorporate regularly into my life. The beauty of it was that while yes, I would have to painstakingly raise a measly 20 dollars for the local metal concert I wanted to attend, my fervor for classical music guaranteed me fully paid for access by my parents, who were understandably supportive of my atypical rebellious teenager interests. Not that they didn’t have to deal with the typical ones as well, but at least I offered a few sparks of hope, such as this.
We eventually made our way to our seats. The crowd was sparse that day, and our seats were in one of the front and center rows -- clearly an optimal situation. I fiddled with the pamphlets we were given excitedly, every so often answering my curious mother’s questions about Shostakovich, and of course, keeping a diligent vigil of my watch. Unbeknownst to me, before I would be allowed to enjoy the music, I would have to answer for my travesty of an outfit.
A few seats to my right was an elderly lady. I cannot remember if she was alone or not; if she was not, then her partner was thankfully a silent one.
“Excuse me,” she said, leaning over the arm rest, waving her hands in my general direction. My mother and I both turned to face her. She was clearly wealthy, judging from her outfit and jewelry. I’m sure I didn’t think this at that moment, but in retrospect, her wealth and her haughtiness are inextricably tied together. I know the two don’t go hand in hand as a rule, but she proved herself to be the type of person who reacted to her good fortune in an unfortunately stereotypical and reprehensible way.
“How can you allow your daughter to wear such an outfit to this event?” A specious account of her tone would tell you that she was teasing, merely making jest of my unceremonious outfit. Of course, the comment in and of itself was innocuous, if a bit out of place. However, the underlying tones of contempt and condescension were not lost on me, and I would like to think my mother as well.
“Well, this was kind of a last minute thing,” I explained politely. “We didn’t plan on this, otherwise I would have worn something different. But I just love classical music, so...I figured that was most important.”
The conversation should have ended here; the response was logical. Agree or disagree, the issue was settled. Instead, what followed was an insufferable discourse between this woman, me, and my mother.
After making sure my mother knew just how negligent of a parent she was for allowing me to commit such an act, she moved on to another probing topic of conversation.
“Where are you two from?” she asked, peeling gold plastic wrapping off of little candies as she spoke.
“We’re from Long Island,” my mother answered.
“Ah, Long Island. Yes, I know people from Long Island,” the woman replied, popping the candy in her mouth. The subtext of this response was glaringly evident: “That explains it,” was basically what she was telling us. She told us where she was from, and for the life of me, I cannot remember. It was a very rich area, which came of no surprise, although I am quite confident that most of her neighbors are considerably better attuned with the ideals of common courtesy and modesty than she is.
She mentioned her grandchildren, which is typically a sweet topic between two mothers. In this situation though, every word that spilled from her mouth had a supercilious stink to it, spoiling the conversation further at every turn. She relished in hammering her grandchildren’s superiority into our skulls.
A notable line I remember quite well: “I would have beaten my children if they ever wore something like that to such a place!” Her glittering facade of social civility was operating in full blast here; the woman managed to utter such a statement while making it sound like she was enthusiastically recommending to us the best restaurant in the city. Her ingratiating laughs and the crinkling of those glimmering candy wrappers was beginning to thoroughly rankle me.
My mother was exceedingly polite to her, going so far as to laugh at scornful quips made at her expense. It bothered me, but could I really call her out on that? All I did was sink into my seat, letting my own natural repellence against confrontation get the best of me as well. With six years of experience since this day, you can be sure that I get the itch to return back to moments like this and unleash a well rehearsed verbal wrath.
I believe the conversation was finally ended by some perfunctory statement like “Enjoy the music.” My mother usually maintains the same expression she ends a conversation with for about a minute after it’s done and over with. However, casting a glance at her once the interrogation had ended, I could make a definite note of the irritation on her face. We put the incident out of our minds, and focused on our anticipation of the music.
The concert was phenomenal. The music didn’t just fill the room, it was the room. It seemed to be burgeoning from the very air in front of me, so encapsulating and enrapturing it was. When it was over, I gathered my things slowly, still awestruck, with the music reverberating in my head. The experience had ended, and real life had begun to permeate the brain, so I inevitably cast a glance in the direction of the elderly lady. She had already left, but in her wake was a scattering of shiny gold wrappers on the floor where she had been sitting.


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Please read this following question only after you have read the story. Did I come off at all like I didn't like rich people or something? I tried really hard to make that not be the case, so I really hope it didn't come off that way. If it did, lemme know. Thanks. I don't think it did, but I'm like..the most neurotic person ever..lol


Last edited by medusaspath on Thu Mar 04, 2010 10:23 pm; edited 1 time in total

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Re: Shostakovich and a Haughty Old Lady - A Short Story

Post by Weiss on Thu Mar 04, 2010 5:19 am

Noteworthy grammatical errors:
I cannot remember if she was alone or not; if she was not, than her partner was thankfully a silent one.

The correct word in this case would be “then”.
After making sure my mother knew just how negligent of a parent she was for allowing me to commit such a act, …

Unless this is one of those awkward times where the usage of a vs. an becomes a complex and incomprehensible matter, the correct term should be “an”. If, however, this is one of those times, disregard this correction.
She mentioned her grandchildren, which typically is sweet topic between two mothers.

I imagine you meant to say, “…typically is a sweet topic…” In addition, I believe it would carry more fluently to say, “…is typically a sweet topic…”

There are times when I noticed a lack of comma usage when it might have been called for, but you seemed less concerned with those instances, so I didn’t bother to keep them in mind.


Truly, this is an occasion where a title defines whether a piece is well- or poorly-written. Allow me to explain. The narration begins as if to detail a stroll through Manhattan, speaking of the excitement felt when meandering about the city streets in a place full of possibilities. A few sentences later, however, this train of thought is abruptly derailed by the arrival of a phone call from the narrator’s father, informing her and her mother that the New York Philharmonic would be playing at Avery Fisher Hall. The sharp deviation from exploring Manhattan to attending a classical concert is somewhat unsettling, but to occur so early in the narration makes it forgivable.

At this point in the story, one might surmise that the rest of the story will be based on the narrator’s experience while attending the concert. To an extent, this is true. The details of what occurs henceforth are indeed happening at Avery Fisher Hall, where the New York Philharmonic is to be playing; however, the story has very little to do with the concert itself. In fact, it is near-entirely a recounting of an unpleasant quarrel with an elderly woman.

Recapping the progression thus far:
  • The narrator and her mother are meandering about Manhattan, “expecting that viable and intriguing opportunities would be in full bloom at every corner.”
  • A few sentences later, this topic is derailed by the introduction of a new venture: to see the New York Philharmonic at Avery Fisher Hall.
  • This subject is maintained for a couple of paragraphs, until the first encounter with the snobby old woman who insists on starting a frivolous quarrel over the narrator’s clothing.


In the span of four paragraphs, the subject of the entire story is shifted twice. At this point, one can hardly tell if the purpose of this piece is to detail the exciting adventure of exploring Manhattan, to recall the wondrous experience of attending the New York Philharmonic’s concert, or to lament the misfortune of quarreling with an old woman over attending the aforementioned concert in poor dress.

As the story continues, we find that it seems to center on the encounter with the old woman. The discussion is recounted at length; not at all boringly, mind you. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this piece’s best writing exists within the exchange of ‘pleasantries’. It holds more emotion – more expression – than any other segment of the narration.

That is why the title becomes so important. If the title indicates that this piece is about a day of exploring Manhattan or the experience of a New York Philharmonic concert, then I would say it is a poorly written short story. If, however, the title reflects that the narrator will be recounting an unpleasant quarrel with a nagging old woman laden with hypocrisy and prided in her lofty arrogance, then I would say that the other segments, detailing the meanderings about Manhattan and the decision to attend the concert, would merely serve as a build-up to the main event, upon which you delivered nicely.

Once the ill-mannered conversation ends, the concert begins. In a single paragraph, you managed to detail the concert, end it, and then recount that the woman had departed with a trail of candy wrappers in her wake. It isn’t wholly bad that you breezed through the concert so quickly. The problem is that, for the short duration where you focused on the concert, you tried to make it sound phenomenal, even having gone so far as to label it as such. Despite making such a statement and using such an emotionally invocative statement as, “The music didn’t just fill the room, it was the room,” the entire event merited not even a whole paragraph of its own.

In other words, it’s inconsistent. If you were going to breeze through the concert, it would have been better to use a less grave depiction of the event. Using such strong wording in an attempt to express the strong emotion that accompanied the concert’s proceedings would be better suited to a set of paragraphs, speaking of the rise and fall of the tenor, the heart-stirring crescendos and the melodious ebb and flow of the music as if wafted throughout the hall with a resonant grandeur like no other sound could produce.

A simple summary would be that the ending was rushed, but I wanted to be sure and explain myself properly. It wasn’t that the ending came about too quickly. It was simply that you focused either too much or too little on the concert itself. Swaying further in either direction would have improved the balance of the narration.

Highlights:
  • The title should reflect the focus of the short story. In its current state, that seems to be interactions between the narrator, her mother and the old woman down the row.
  • The opening theme of exploring Manhattan should either be expanded slightly to increase its significance to the story or done away with entirely. As it is, it merely misleads the audience into believing they are being led through an adventure to explore the intriguing sites of the island, only to find a few sentences later that this is not at all the case, and the existence of Manhattan was all together insignificant to the story that is being told.
  • The concert should either be given more detail, or breezed through with seeming insignificance, either of which will create a better sense of balance. I suggest adding more detail. Doing so would augment the narrator’s prior statements that, in spite of her ragged clothing – poorly suited for attending the concert – she is an avid fan of classical music and enjoys the concert no less for her attire.



I hope this was somewhat helpful. I apologize if it seems convoluted or indirect. I’m tired and medicated and trying to phrase things in the most definitive way possible.


In response to your question: no, I don't believe you've come across as disliking wealthy people. I would say that the narrator's distaste for that particular woman was apparent, but I don't see any deeply seated dislike toward rich people in general.

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Re: Shostakovich and a Haughty Old Lady - A Short Story

Post by Bird of Hermes on Thu Mar 04, 2010 2:59 pm

The only thing that I would add that Weiss had not already done in his response is this: I would use the words for the numbers in the story (i.e. 'four' instead of '4' and 'fourteen' instead of '14').

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Re: Shostakovich and a Haughty Old Lady - A Short Story

Post by medusaspath on Thu Mar 04, 2010 10:18 pm

Weiss - Thank you so much for the detailed review. The errors you pointed out were typos. I can't believe I missed those. I was like, cringing as you pointed them out. It's crazy how much you miss even when you think you reread a piece to death.

Yes, the story's focal point is the old lady, so I was going to make the title have something to do with that.

I definitely see what you mean about the end. I think I'm going to expand it before, because as you accurately noted, it is meant to show that the narrator (well, me lol) does have a deep rooted love for classical.

But I'm not sure about the beginning...I can't make it longer, because you even said that the fact that I changed focus to the concert so early was forgivable. I didn't want to just jump straight into "one day I went to a concert", I wanted there to be somewhat of a backdrop. Also, the concert was supposed to be like...something the city had to offer, which is why I even said any of that. Would omitting the part about my father calling, perhaps saying that we found it ourselves in the city, make that more evident? At the same time, that was linked to me citing my father being an influence of my musical tastes. I guess I could still do that, but it was a good way to segue into that. Hmm..

well anyway, thanks so much for the review again, let me know what you think about what I said. I'm going to fix the typos and then brainstorm on that ending. Smile

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