Play
I’ve always been a music junkie. When I say “always,” I mean like my mom still talks about going out for pizza with the family when I was toddler, and the whole place laughed at the way I was carrying on “dancing” in my seat because we were next to a jukebox.
Music was this weird obsession growing up. I went to all the concerts. My mom took me to local bars because I was going one way or the other, and she figured she was better off chaperoning.
I learned piano. I learned guitar. I taught both out of the house while I was working on my earliest manuscripts.
And then.
Life got busy, filled with deadlines and editorial schedules.
And then.
It was suddenly a lot quieter, too.
This year, I did something I hadn’t done in five years. I clicked open my guitar case.
Five years, man.
Every day, I’m giving myself fifteen-twenty minutes of practice time. My music tastes are different than they were the last time I picked up my guitar, so I’m going waaaaaay back to the beginning. My hand cramps and my fingertips are no longer callused, so the strings are biting back.
It is the happiest anything has made me in a long time.
I wanted to be sure to say that in the midst of all the striving we’re all doing, there needs to be something we do simply for the pleasure of doing it. Not because it’s supposed to translate to something. Not because it’s supposed to pay off in some way. Just because it gives us joy to do it. Knit the one-armed sweater. Jog one block. Sing the song even though you can’t remember all the lyrics. Color the picture. (Yes! With crayons!) Plant the daisies. Decide not to weed the dandelions out of your flower bed because they’re also a pretty yellow.
It doesn’t have to be done quickly. Or done well. No one has to pay us for it.
It is play. That’s all. It’s play.
We’ll get to revision strategies next week. For now, give yourself fifteen minutes.
And play.