Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it would take to write a book.

I am fascinated by the challenge of writing a book and how far away I feel from actually being able to do it. In particular, I can’t imagine ever being able to write a novel, which makes me want to challenge myself to figure out how to do it.

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I saw my dad’s Harmony six-string sitting there in the corner, festooned with its array of balloon stickers and the ancient Venus and Mars sticker that came with the LP of the same name.

It was the first guitar I ever played, a satisfying little instrument even though it had had its neck snapped off when it was backed over by a pickup truck.

But my guitar calluses have lately been replaced by rowing ones. Music is no longer a big part of my daily work, so I haven’t been playing on the job the way I used to. As a result, days go by when I don’t pick up a guitar.

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Moving to Maine hasn’t been good for my tennis game.

I didn’t feel comfortable going to the indoor tennis courts during covid, so I signed up for one of those flex leagues that allows you to find compatible players. Well, I found three players total, and the closest one was 20 miles away. That was a bit discouraging after spending almost two decades in a tennis haven in which there were dozens of players in my neighborhood alone and a bunch of drop-in classes available throughout the week in various parks and tennis centers.

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The way most people learn classical piano, they are building in mistakes that will make them sound like amateurs forever.

They start at the beginning of a piece, which is only logical, and keep playing until they reach the end. There are stumbles along the way, but that’s only natural. It will get better with time, right?

Not necessarily. A piece can get more familiar, but it isn’t guaranteed to get better. If your fingers play the same wrong thing a hundred times, that’s what they will “think” is correct. Fixing this problem requires an intervention.

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It’s spring. Finally spring.

Living for many years in Atlanta taught me that even a mild, short winter can seem exhaustingly long. The camellias and pansies bloom all through January and the daffodils show up around Valentine’s Day each year, but the damp, cold days felt endless somehow. I was always just ticking off the days until spring—or at least, spring-like weather.

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