"All music should have no other end and aim than the glory of God..."

The rain is pouring down, the wind whistling around the not so antiquated not real eaves of my house. It is a perfect November day. Have I ever mentioned that for me a beautiful day is a rainy, gloomy, darkly overcast day? None of this sunny day nonsense. Unless of course on one's wedding day, if they intend to get married outside. I used to, but I have completely turned in favour of a very traditional wedding, inside a huge stone cathedral, or ancient church, with towering ceilings, and a beautiful organ to play the wedding march. I was thinking of having the wedding in a) St. Paul's Cathedral; b)Westminster Abbey; or c) St. Margaret's Church, Westminster Abbey. But alas, I am not of the Church of England.

So, moving on.

I have been listening to the music below as I write my novel to-day.

My novel is going quite well, indeed better than I half hoped, knowing that for myself, I can create grand, heroic, and epic novels, filled with beautiful and dashing women and men, filled with honour, courage, bravery, stolidness, and love for their country, and yet to, to introduce them to a hard, cold, world, one so sadly unlike their own, is sadness indeed, and I am often the cause for the fact that they do not often make it long in this world, due to poor attempts to put words to paper.

Or perhaps it is simply because for the ten other months of the year (I exclude October for planning, and November for writing) I simply do not care to write novels. Why write when you can read the work of other, better masters? Why should I, as a young, inexperienced, a good deal too immature for my own good, person feel that I have a right to offer anything to this world until I am older, much more experienced, and wiser? The world is full of people who will write anything simply to express whatever they are feeling at the moment, hence music that isn't music, poetry that doesn't rhyme or in any sense convey beauty, and atrocious art, art that is more of an eyesore than anything else, and only fit for feeding the fires that keep lovers of real art warm during the cold days ahead. There are simply not enough people out there who write novels, create music, and paint pictures and portraits, with the aim not of merely creating something else to "express" themselves, but to create a masterpiece, a magnum opus. And in creating that masterpiece, one naturally expresses oneself quite well.

"All music should have no other end and aim than the glory of God and the soul's refreshment; where this is not remembered there is no real music but only a devilish hubbub.”J.S.Bach*

Anyway, my novel is going well, and apparently there are some people in my beloved family who want to read it when it is done. I hope they like it. And now I am off to get ready for church.

* It is ostensible there are several variations to this quote, I hope I have chosen the correct one.