The Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and its music director, David Zinman, have done me the great honor of premiering my second symphony at their concerts Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Unlike my first symphony, which was composed for the American Camerata for New Music -- a smaller orchestra specializing in the performance of difficult contemporary scores -- my second attempt was undertaken with the BSO in mind. This work, then, is designed for a large orchestra of high quality, used to performing a wide range of repertory, and for which efficient use of costly rehearsal time is an absolute given.

Indeed, the harsh economic facts of composing and performing new symphonic music act all too frequently as a disincentive to both writers and players. This is especially so in the United States, where government support for the arts is at once stingy and viewed with suspicion (often visited on the artist himself) by much of the public.

Many patriotic book lovers have long cherished the notion that The Great American Novel has yet to appear, forgetting that "Moby-Dick," "Huckleberry Finn," "The Great Gatsby," and many others already qualified for this designation.

A similar delusion occurs in regard to the Great American Symphony. And although fewer in number, at least in comparison with novels, certain symphonies by Ives, Sessions, Wallingford Riegger and William Schuman (to name only these few) show qualities of "greatness" sufficient to prove the fallacy underlying this idea.

But why should American symphonies, "great" or otherwise, be in such short supply compared with the large number of excellent American novels? The answer lies in the different economics of the the two genres: It is cheaper to write and publish the printed work than it is to write, publish and perform a musical score.

Notice the additional factor of music's part in the equation. If a novel (or poem or play) remains unpublished, there is no lack of literate, educated people who can read the author's manuscript with comprehension. Similarly, a painting may never hang in a gallery, but the artist's finished product may be viewed and appreciated by the lay art lover without a host of intermediaries interpreting the work for him. But a musical score can only be read and "heard in the head" by a trained musician. And rare indeed are those even in this group who can read a complex orchestral score in this fashion. (Salieri's ability to do so with Mozart's music in the film "Amadeus" must have surprised many moviegoers. It was no doubt easier in Mozart's day. Already at the beginning of our century, Gustav Mahler -- certainly one of the greatest conductors of all time -- complained that he could not "hear" the scores of his young colleague, Arnold Schoenberg.)

The necessity of performance in music's realization makes it one of the most expensive of art forms. And unless the composer of symphonies is supported by commissions, foundation grants or (in my own case and in that of most of my fellow composers) a university teaching position, a large share of the composer's cost in writing the work must be borne by the composer. Whether the composer's score is engraved (either very expensive or time-consuming) or handwritten (time-consuming), sufficient copies must be made and bound to send to conductors, and if a work is selected for performance, parts for each instrument must be written by hand or engraved by computer (very expensive either way if done professionally).

I wrote my second symphony, like most of my recent music, in pencil. Fortunately, with the state-of-the-art photo-copying now

available, a copy looks even better than the original. But the work of printing on both sides of a page, lining up facing pages so that staves are aligned horizontally, and binding the pages into book form is best left to a professional printer. And such services do not come cheap.

Even more costly and time-consuming is the extraction of parts for each individual player (or group of players, in the case of the strings, where there is more than one player on a part). Professional copyists charge either by the page or by the hour. Either way, prices for a work such as mine -- with a playing time of about fifteen minutes -- can run to a few thousand dollars. If the piece is commissioned, the composer must often use most or all of his commission money just to pay for this essential.

One of the few grants for copying costs available to American composers is the Margaret Fairbanks Jory Program administered the American Music Center. I am the recipient of such a grant, which pays about a quarter of the copyist's fee. Other individuals who have contributed include Baltimore's great music patron Randolph S. Rothschild, Selma Rosen and Rose B. Isaacs. Rental of performance materials to the orchestra and royalties are also a partial reimbursement.

A good deal of the process involved in parts extraction is thorough proofreading of the copyist's work, preferably by someone other than the copyist. This is necessary in order to cut down inefficient use of expensive rehearsal time by the orchestra.

After such a dismal recitation, the reader may well ask, "Why do you continue to compose symphonies, when they pay so little?" Sometimes, this question will be accompanied by another: "Why do you write music that is difficult for symphony orchestra audiences to understand?"

An adequate answer to the latter question needs more space than I am allowed. A short answer will have to do: I compose the way I do because I must; I can see no other way of doing it. I write the kind of music I like to hear when others write it. And my experience with audiences has been that there are many patient listeners to my music who have found their patience rewarded in time.

As to why I indulge my newfound "hobby" of writing symphonies: Despite the expense involved, I believe that of all instrumental music the symphony is the most dramatic of genres and the most far-reaching in terms of variety and expressiveness. For whatever reasons, the symphony has attracted most of the major composers of the past 2 1/2 centuries and many of the minor ones as well.

Mahler said to the young Jan Sibelius: "Symphony is the $H Universe; it must embrace everything." To Charles Ives -- at least in his fourth and his unfinished "Universe" symphonies -- the genre best fulfilled the Emersonian ideal of "all things in their variety."

My own goals are modest, and my "cosmos" is of the micro-variety. Indeed, some people familiar with my work may discern a "classicizing" tendency in this symphony. I do make a few nods to symphonic forms of the past, without wholly adopting any of them.

When I was employed full-time at Towson State University, I was able to compose only during the summer and winter breaks -- undistracted by class preparations, designing and grading of exams and assignments, and serving on academic committees. The summers of 1989 and 1990 were devoted to composing my second symphony, during which a dear friend and colleague died. Diane Jezic -- author, educator, pianist and editor -- lost a long and brave battle with cancer in 1989. My symphony is dedicated to her memory, and the solemn finale of its last movement might reflect some of the emotions I felt at her passing.

Last July I suffered my own personal loss in the sudden death of my wife, Helen, which followed her six-year battle with kidney failure -- a battle she fought with tenacity and courage. Helen W. Cyr, to whom I was married for nearly 42 years, led a long and distinguished career in educational and library circles and was renowned nationally for her pioneering advocacy of audio-visual

materials in public school education. My musical memorial to her must await completion of my third string quartet, which I had planned and hoped to dedicate to her while she was living.

Gordon Cyr is professor emeritus of music theory and composition at Towson State University.