Martin took the book. His hands were shaking.
Martin stared at the squiggles. No key signature. No dynamics. Just a skeletal melody. His first instinct was to reach for rules: double the bass an octave down, keep the soprano cornet on the top line, fill the middle with tenor horns.
The rejection emails were always polite. “While we appreciate the creative use of antiphonal cornets, the overall texture lacks idiomatic clarity.” Translation: you have no idea what you’re doing, Martin.
The band chuckled. Martin felt his face burn.
And for the first time in years, Martin Finch stopped arranging notes and started breathing fire.