The Day My Computer Tried to Silence My Music: A Composition Jury Disaster
Ever had a tech disaster threaten to derail your academic dreams at the absolute worst possible moment? Imagine this: you're a music composition student, you've poured your heart and soul into creating a portfolio of new works, and the culmination of your semester – your composition jury – is just days away. You've spent countless hours meticulously notating every crescendo, every subtle dynamic shift, every note, using your trusty computer and specialized software. You're ready. You're prepared.
Then, disaster strikes. Your computer, your lifeline, the very device holding all your musical creations, decides it's had enough.
That's precisely what happened to me in 2010. My computer, a faithful companion through many late-night composing sessions, decided to stage a dramatic exit just before my final jury presentation. It wasn't a slow fade; it was a sudden, catastrophic failure. One moment, I was fine-tuning a string quartet; the next, a blank screen stared back at me, mocking my impending deadline.
Panic, as you can imagine, set in quickly. All my scores, all my carefully crafted audio mockups, all my hard work… seemingly vanished. This wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a potentially grade-destroying event. My composition jury wasn't just a presentation; it was a crucial evaluation of my progress as a composer, requiring me to showcase my finished pieces. Without my files, I had nothing to show.
I scrambled, trying every troubleshooting trick in the book, but it was clear: my computer was kaput. With no immediate solution and the jury looming, I had to face the music, so to speak. My professor, understanding the gravity of the situation (and perhaps having witnessed similar tech-related meltdowns before), granted me an "incomplete." While a temporary reprieve, it meant one thing: my summer would be spent not relaxing, but making up for lost time and rebuilding my portfolio from scratch.
It was a grueling summer. I borrowed a computer, scrounged for old drafts, and essentially recomposed parts of my portfolio. The pressure was immense, but it also forced me to work in a way I hadn't before. I discovered a newfound resilience and an ability to push through immense stress. When I finally presented my made-up jury at the end of the summer, there was a profound sense of accomplishment, not just in the music itself, but in having overcome such a significant hurdle.
Lessons Learned (the Hard Way):
This traumatic experience taught me some invaluable lessons that I carry with me to this day, and that I want to share with any aspiring composer:
Back Up Everything, and Then Back It Up Again: This is non-negotiable. Cloud storage, external hard drives, USB sticks – use them all! Set up automatic backups if you can. Assume your technology will fail, because eventually, it probably will.
Version Control is Your Friend: Don't just save over your old files. Create new versions regularly (e.g., "PieceTitle_v1," "PieceTitle_v2," etc.). This way, if a file gets corrupted, you can always revert to an earlier, working version.
Print Your Scores (Even Drafts): While digital is convenient, having physical copies of your scores can be a lifesaver. You can always refer to them, even if your computer dies.
Embrace Resilience: Things will go wrong. Your creative process will hit roadblocks. Learn to adapt, problem-solve, and push through. These challenges often make you a stronger artist.
The 2010 jury incomplete was a disaster, but it was also a powerful teacher. It forced me to confront my reliance on technology and to build robust habits that have served me well throughout my compositional career. And trust me, I've never forgotten to back up my files since!
