I haven’t talked recently about playing the piano, but let me reassure you that it is still happening. Sir I. and I started taking lessons over a month ago, and we both enjoy them, including the time we share together driving to and from lessons. Our teacher lives way out in the country–about half the route is on dirt roads–and we like to point out to each other the place we once saw foxes(!) crossing the street and the Hallway of Trees and the farm with the flagpole and pond. It’s good mother-son bonding time.
Oh, and I like playing the piano, too. Still. *wink*
Playing piano complements writing really well for me. I can’t write while the kids are around; I can’t play piano while they’re sleeping. Writing is hard mental work; playing is–well, I just sit down and make my fingers stumble over the keys in the hopes that I can build up the skill and strength and muscle memory it takes to play decently. And honestly, these days I feel more of a sense of accomplishment playing through a short piece of music than working on my writing. Maybe it’s because I’m a complete beginner at piano, so any progress feels like a huge leap to me. My learning curve for writing, on the other hand, is currently a plateau. I’ve reached a certain level of competence and I’m stuck there. I can *see* where published work is better than what I’m writing, but not sure how to go about getting my stories across that invisible line.
And so, it’s just easier to go play the same measures of Sea Mist for the umpteenth time.
But, lest you think this is an entirely gloomy post, I have every confidence that once the weather cools down and we get into fall, my story-writing neurons will get all fired up to write. It’s weird, but cold weather makes a writer out of me. It’s as if I have a silicon brain, like the Discworld trolls.
How are your creative endeavors?