On listening to myself, and the Geographical Fugue

When I, as a silly little teenager with college apps on the horizon, first held the intoxicating what-if of being a Professional Pianist in my head, I had very clear images of what that glorious life would be. Getting to pound out my feelings at a grand piano every day, constant jet-setting, a cavalcade of beautiful gowns in my closet, applause and adulation all the time: yes, sign me up, that’s way more appealing than an office job!

It turns out—and this, according to my friends, is true no matter what “dream” profession you’re in—that the reality of living your dream is far more sobering and tedious than your naive teenage self could ever fathom, and part of the daily covenant you have to make with yourself to continue living the dream is to just get cozy with the discomfort and tedium and to embrace the ritual of it.

I’ve more or less gotten used to Pianist Life, which involves thrilling things like running my fingers through 60-90 minutes of unexciting technical drills and rhythmic patterns every morning, dissecting beautiful works of music into clinical fragments that I schedule practicing in advance (folks, we don’t wait for inspiration), and emails. So many emails! I do not understand why there are so many emails all the time. If Clara Schumann didn’t have to deal with a perpetually out-of-control email inbox, why should I?

By far the worst of all tasks, though, that I still haven’t gotten used to, and maybe never will, is having to listen back to recordings of myself. I hate it with the burning, roiling heat of the Earth’s molten core. The way I feel listening to myself is the way Deborah Proctor apparently feels listening to operas with queer and BIPOC themes, only in my case it’s due to internalized self-loathing instead of cultural ignorance and bigotry.