Chopsticks

When I was forty-nine, I took up the piano for the first time. I'd been an adequate violinist in my youth, learned to read music, sang in many choral ensembles from the time I was twelve, had a deep love of the instrument, worshiped Dave Brubeck. How could I not succeed? Well, I'll tell you how.

I signed up for lessons with a jewel of a teacher at our local community center. Patrick was all you could want in a teacher, kind, patient, supportive but a firm task master. Each week I avoided practicing as I had as a young violinist. Each week I'd apologize to Patrick. Each week I'd promise to do better.

Just by showing up for the lessons and with a modest amount of practice, I was able to even participate in a recital. At least I think I did. Late middle aged women with panic disorders probably shouldn't agree to play in piano recitals. I see a flashback of a bunch of us, all ages, practicing for the recital. The actual recital is a hole in the swiss cheese of the rest of that memory.

Before I started the lessons, I was absolutely convinced that I could go from being a non-pianist to a pianist in record time. When I closed my eyes, I could see myself playing. I was visioning the outcome. I really had no doubt about being able to succeed at playing the piano.

But I did not succeed. Instead I ran off to Texas with the brother of a friend and spent a winter knitting dish cloths in front of the food network. I remember my piano teacher's parting words. "Be sure to practice safe sex." Yes, those were the parting words of my piano teacher.

I like telling little stories like this. It's fun. Really fun. I've been doing it all my life. I've been writing them down for ten years. I could go on doing it for the rest of my life. Easily. But noooo... I want to write a novel. Oh God, please don't let the novel writing turn out like the piano playing.

More later.