A New Year, Braver

I've decided to be a bit braver this year. I have literal shelves of notebooks and (actual) thousands of pages on my computer of essays, stories and writing that I've hidden away. I've always wanted to post them somewhere, but I was too embarrassed. I felt scared that people would see it and realize that I'm not a perfect, flawless writer. Or worse, they'd just hate me, for whatever reason (or no reason at all). People do that all the time on the Internet. 

I've started a number of blogs-- then promptly erased them a few weeks after starting. This time, I'm going to try and keep this one up for at least a year. And I'm going to try not to hit erase on my blog posts if I can help it! It's not that I think anyone's going to read a lot of my writing-- it's more for me. I need to get some practice making art that no one cares about (or even art people dislike), showing it to the world, and then getting over it and keep going. 

While I was contemplating this, I was thinking about something that's had a great impact on me-- my fascination with and meager skills with playing music.

The Gift of Earnest Mediocrity

One of the greatest events for my own writing came from learning a bit of piano from 2022-2023. I had a tremendous piano teacher, Clint Sudweeks, who pushed me to go play piano at a weekly jam session just a couple weeks into my learning. Well, he tricked me into it-- he said there was no pressure to play. He lied, haha. 

I got there, and there were all these amazing musicians playing music, dancing and joking around, trying to make each other laugh while playing. There were just a few players there so of course they noticed me, and they were really friendly. Too friendly. Zach, one of the pianists, invited me up to sit on the bench and watch what he was doing. I was amazed as I watched his left hand bounce across octaves with incredible precision while his right hand sang-- all without even looking. 

There was a lull in the music after a bit when Zach said "Now you play!" 

I laughed, and said "No, I don't know how!"

The rest of the musicians caught on to Zach's idea, unfortunately, and joined him. "Come on, you can do it! Play!"

Concerned that they thought I was simply being bashful or modest, I said more firmly (with a rising tone of panic), "No, guys, I really don't know how to play."

They laughed, then kept encouraging me. 

So I did it.

I played one of the worst piano solos of all time. 

Those 12 bars felt like an eternity. I felt blood rush to my cheeks as I squirmed on the bench, musicians all around me watching and listening. It was mortifying. Thankfully, Zach took it back up and started playing again. I felt like dying inside. I went home and considered calling off the piano thing entirely so that I'd never be seen by these people again. 

But apparently they all lied through their teeth and told Clint after the jam that I was "great for a first timer" and other nice lies you say about beginners. It was still embarrassing, but I had loved their music, so I decided to keep going. And it was miraculous-- I improved so much during that time. I was not good, not at all. But I got better fast. And I loved it. 

I started to notice something-- my earnest attempt to improve combined with my mediocrity was not a burden-- my earnest mediocrity was a gift. Because I just dropped the skill floor way down. It turns out, most people are at least a little worried about sounding good or looking good, especially in front of their fellow musicians who had been playing for decades. But there I was, red faced and visibly sweaty, 2 months in, humiliating myself with a barely recognizable rendition of "On the Sunny Side of the Street." Bam, they didn't have to feel so bad. It was like having a normal guy run next to Olympic sprinters to give you an accurate sense of scale and awe at their achievements. 

My earnest mediocrity was a gift because it said "If that guy can put himself out there and sound like that, why can't I? This is a safe place."

The Worst that Can Happen

I've always been afraid of posting online because it feels like the Internet is a little bit like a horrible lottery. 99.999% of people go largely unnoticed by all but their closest friends and family, and go about their lives relatively happily (or maybe with a slightly bruised ego). But there's this tiny, miniscule chance that you put yourself out there-- and then people get really rude and say awful hurtful things. 

Luckily, my practice playing the piano poorly also gave me a chance to deal with that too. I went to another Jam session and there was only one other pianist. Someone called a song that he didn't know, and he was getting really tired and asked if anyone else could play piano. No one said anything, so I looked at the song and it seemed OK, so I said yes. Then I got up and flubbed it really bad. I sat down red-faced after the song, and this random guy who was only their for the summer on an internship said "well, I think they wanted someone who could actually play the piano. I could play better than that."

Ouch. I still kind of laugh about it to this day because it was so unnecessarily harsh. Most the people I knew at the jam session gave him a bit of a harsh side eye for it too. 

But he was right-- he could play better than that. He got up and played the next two songs on the piano far better than I could. 

It was like my anxiety's worst nightmare, and it was really unlikely. Most people have some common decency and aren't super harsh like that to random people, especially in person.  But it happened. 

And you know, it wasn't really that bad. I was comfortable with the fact that I wasn't really that good. It didn't hurt because I wasn't pretending to be something great and amazing. I was just a normal person, trying my best and making a fool out of myself. And it wasn't that bad.

Playing the piano for me is just a joy, like singing in the shower or writing whenever I get the chance. It makes me want to dance. I like to spend a little time everyday playing along to some random song on Spotify to train my ear and get practice in every key-- and if the song's good enough, I do dance. And nobody really cares. When I play piano in front of people, I think it's mostly background noise, sometimes annoying, and in rare moments, something people enjoy a little. But I do it because I love it. I want to practice being braver-- putting myself out there. Most people won't hear my words, and most who do will forget it moments after reading it. But it's enough for me that for a little while, I colored the small corner of time & space I get with music and laughter. Making a fool of myself is a small price to pay for all that. Besides, I was going to make a fool of myself anyways-- might as well do it having a bit of fun.