I still need to look over the commission piece one more time before tonight, to speed along the semi-memorization of text that makes everything so much easier. (It works best for me to think in phrases, so I only have to glance at the words every few measures. Since at the same time I'm also watching the notes on the staff, the instructions above the staff, the conductor, and my own penciled notes. While listening to the other parts. And my own section, of course.)
I went home last night and wrote nothing, which I think has helped to alleviate my frustrated knot of Monday. I read more of L.M. Montgomery's PAT OF SILVER BUSH instead. Nothing like a little flowery, sentimental prose to make one feel better about one's own writing. I fantasized about Lucy Maud with pencil in hand, or typewriter or whatever, mentally counting up her pay by the word and then carefully adding in the word "dear" as a descriptive adjective five more times. Ahem.