My sink is full of dirty dishes, my dishwasher full of clean. The laundry needs to be moved to the dryer and the carpets could certainly use a vacuum. But I am a writer waiting on betas. Which means I must refresh my email exactly 12,483 times a day to see if anyone has left me feedback.
Yes, I know I have a problem. And yes, going on submission is far worse. I understand.
But none of this stops me from wandering the house listlessly, contemplating my own existence.
I’ve taken up learning French. Does it help?
I play piano.
The truth is that I’ve been taking lessons for 8 1/2 years and I’ll probably never play as well as I’d like to. I might be better by now if, say, I actually practiced every day, but I don’t. Some weeks I don’t even practice at all. An internet blog might not be the best place to announce that, but trust me when I say that my piano teacher already knows all about my (lack of) practice habits. To be fair, sometimes I skip out on practice because my piano looks like this:
But most times, it’s just because I don’t make the time to do it, and it’s those times when I wonder why I continue with lessons. It’s not like I’m ever going to be the next Beethoven or Mozart. But really, that’s not why I keep on.
I play piano for the same reason I write—for me. Even without practice, weekly lessons still get me closer to my end goal than quitting and walking away ever could. And if someday I manage to create something worthy enough for the rest of the world to experience, great! If not, I’ve still pushed myself further than most people will ever dream.
And maybe when I’m 93, I’ll play as well as this guy.
But probably, I’ll still be taking lessons.