What makes a novel with a plot you could easily envision for a soap opera episode rise to the level of literary fiction? That’s a question I often ask after reading what in the movie world might be called “indie,” or viewable on Sundance, but not the other 50 movie channels I get on cable.

The plot of Richard Burgin’s Ghost Quartet is easily captured in one sentence, albeit a sentence with a semi-colon. An ambitious, heterosexual young composer curries favor with a maestro conductor who overtly promises a shove up several rungs on the career ladder in exchange for a sexual relationship; said young composer loses the female love of his life in the process, and the Maestro’s ultra-sensitive former lover is devastated.

Remove the gay theme and the setting in the classical music world and the plot works just as well for an episode of Dallas, The Sopranos, or House of Cards. While Ghost Quartet was published in 1999, it is based in New York (Manhattan and upstate, Tanglewood), so it is difficult to give credit for tackling gay themes earlier than others.

Having played a classical instrument, attended music camps, and played in orchestras and string chamber groups, I was taken in by the music world Burgin depicts. I am also a sucker for books set in Manhattan, especially around the neighborhood of my alma mater, Columbia University.

Burgin’s novel has at least two qualities that answer the question posed at the top. First, the story has momentum. Rarely have I read a novel this length (300+ pages) in such a short amount of time. There is something compelling about the economy and precision of his prose, especially difficult when an author is dealing with neurotic prodigies, talented musicians, and, for lack of a better word, characters who overthink everything. You need many extra words to convey complex, contradictory emotions and behaviors, but none of Burgin’s text is surplus. Burgin’s mastery here surely must be derived from having a professional background in classical music (he is a composer and the son of a famous classical musician) and in writing and literature.

In literary fiction, one looks for themes or connections to issues that present themselves between the lines on the pages, especially if the plot or characters offer little more than the standard moral dilemmas and contrasts we are accustomed to regardless what fiction we read. In Ghost Quartet, I gained a greater understanding of a somewhat vile reality faced by classical musicians and other artists: Beyond a certain point, everyone is talented, the talent pool is an ocean, the few prodigies and stars have been sifted out by the talent recognition and separation system, and those remaining have few choices in their quest to make more than a mere living.

In today’s world, you either learn to wield the tools of self-promotion, or you depend on the kindness of those with coattails you may catch and ride, along with the reputation of the credentials you earn (e.g. a degree from the Juilliard compared to a degree from Southeastern Indiana State College). Coattails, of course, usually have threads attached. I think this is what Burgin captures splendidly, not just the moral dilemma or the economic survival imperative, but the need for something else for which a price must be paid. Rare is the performer or corporate executive or wealthy citizen who did not have to compromise on something for which his soul will punish him for the rest of this life.

Consumers of professional music and art want to believe that cream rises to the top, talent and hard work is rewarded, and the “rock stars” we regard so highly deserve our adoration (and our discretionary spending). Burgin takes the reader on a fast ride through the thick murky waters of the not-so-obvious reasons why one gifted individual is playing in a world-renowned string quartet, and another equally gifted musician is teaching music in public high school No. 143.