Friday, July 8, 2011

On Practice

Practice -> joy.

There, that's the point of the post.  You can go and play with your cat/do something else now.

Unless you want to make me happy, in which case go read on.

--

I am a creature of habit.  I take comfort in the little rituals (I take off my glasses before a test.  Always), I eat the same lunch almost every day, I don't need the menu at my favorite restaurant because I only ever order one thing.

Also, I'm eversoslightly addicted to playing my euphonium.

Actually, as I type this I keep glancing at the clock on my computer.  Let's see...think I can squeeze in half an hour before my sister gets back from work?  When am I going to go get batteries for my tuner and valve oil?  Who cares?

I always get a bit irritated with myself on the days where I don't do anything, but if I get in a solid 30 minutes to an hour of "practice" (read: playing random songs in the lowest key I can manage, unless I want to kill myself on high notes) then the day is not wasted.

I'm actually going to go play some euph right now.  Brb.

--

50 minutes later: grinning.

Practice is satisfying.  Whenever I finish practicing, I feel so much more accomplished.  My intonation can only have gotten worse since the summer started, but all the same I feel as though I'm getting better.  I'm getting something done.

When I don't practice for a few days at a time, I start getting twitchy.  To continue the metaphor, I get euphonium withdrawal.  It's like sand is under my skin, and the moment I pick up Euphie and my lovely deep tuning note (the one note that's consistently pretty-sounding) comes out, the sand is washed away by a great slow-moving river of brass.

(Okay, "great slow-moving river" describes David Childs' tone, not mine, but to a parched throat tap water is just as good as a dragonfruit vitaminwater.  So there. What did I just write?)

The point is, I have to practice. Otherwise I just feel wrong.

--

Last summer, The Utopia Project was my euphonium.

This summer, it is...not. It's not like in the spring when I would get in a session once every three weeks, thank heavens. But I don't need it, need it so strongly that I get out of sorts when I haven't written in a few days. It's not necessary to my stability.

Slowly I'm writing more, but all too often it's an afterthought. And even then I'm focusing on word count, page number, more than the actual writing. Sentence-facebook-paragraph-tumblr-sentence-deviantart-two paragraphs-goodreads. I write in fragments. I've lost momentum.

But I remember what it was like when story flowed through my veins. I'm listening to Breaking Benjamin, which was the soundtrack of those mad three months where I racked up thousands of words each week, and it's bringing me back. I have not given up on myself or this story.

I will write.

(To assuage my guilt.)

(To give my story what it deserves.)

Because I will not bow, I will not break...I will not fall, I will not fade, I will take your breath away.

Peace.

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