One of my favorite podcasts is If Books Could Kill, where the two hosts take a critical (good faith) look at the pop-sci books that take the zeitgeist by storm every few years. Examples of this include:
- Outliers
- The Secret
- Blink
- Nudge
- Rich Dad, Poor Dad
What these books frequently have in common is a failure to successfully parse correlation from causation, mostly because they are written by laypeople interested in novelty rather than methodology. It would be delightful if the secret to, say, success on an instrument was only about logging those fabled 10,000 hours. Or if dedicated meditation about an important goal brought that goal to fruition. But both of these reflect correlations: folks who have the time to do 10,000 hours of practice are very likely doing all kinds of other things that contribute to proficiency, including simply being the kind of maniac who is so hell bent on improvement that they would do nearly anything to get there. But I have seen—even in my studio—people get close to 10,000 hours and be miles away from anything resembling mastery. I also know that the sort of person who meditates on an outcome with intensity and purpose is likely taking other steps to make that happen; sometimes those steps are unconscious, sure. And I’m not one to reject “the universe” and energy and all that good stuff. I’m as new agey and spiritual as they come. But I’m also a junkie for data and repeatable long-term research outcomes, and so few of these airport books take the time to wade into all of that.
I’m reading the following four books that seem like they might have some insight into the way psychology intersects with practice and performance:
The one I’m engrossed in now is Range. I’m only halfway through, but the premise is that excessive specialization tends to be more of a hindrance than one would expect. He starts out with the parallel lives of Tiger Woods and Roger Federer. Tiger famously started fooling around with a golf club as an infant, and by age three was already better than most of us will ever get. His life was completely shaped by his skill and his parents’ desire to sequester him from anything that might distract from it. Federer, on the other hand, was involved in and excited about all kinds of sports: dancing, tennis, soccer/football, as well as having academic interests. These disparate elements inform each other, while also helping a young person see that life is huge and varied—that success or failure at this thing isn’t all there is. Learning over and over how to take the enthusiasm endemic to beginners and turn it into motivation is the real skill.
The other piece I want you to consider: it seems discipline borne of having fun with the practice cultivates a more resilient kind of relationship to whatever is being worked on. It’s been said a million times in a bunch of ways, but the idea is that you have to be okay with the journey. The overarching tide of forward progress is the goal in terms of months and years, but you need to find a way to love what you’re doing while you’re doing it. Otherwise, you thread together a string of lies and misconceptions about the kind of person who succeeds at this thing and why you’re just not one of them.
I’ll leave you with this. Today, 7 May 2025, I practiced about 90 minutes between lessons. Mostly, I was doing detail work on the Paganini 24th Caprice. The one with all the variations. I’ve been working on a particular arpeggio in the Finale section for a little over a month. Some days, I practice mostly that arpeggio, bending it a bunch of different ways: variety is essential to create more adversity than the passage actually presents. It sounds good about 2% of the time. The rest of the time, there are bobbles, scratches, pitchy notes, and the occasional brain fart. But I LOVE IT. All of it. Why? Because practicing something that is eating my lunch means I’m getting better at it. It means I’m clearing out a new technical blind spot and not running away from something just because it is difficult. And doing things the right way, the more time consuming and thorough way, guarantees that I will improve. I’ll improve at the passage and I’ll be a better cellist for it.
So, instead of being sad that once again, a piece of music is not instantly easy and beautiful as soon as I learn the notes, I relish the process. It’s a wonderful way to spend an afternoon (or a life). If you can’t find a way to fall in love with the thing we spend 90% of our time doing, put the thing down and don’t look back.* It’s not because you’re not meant to be a musician, or don’t have what it takes. It’s because the fantasy has to stop at some point, and you should find something you actually do love because life is short. It should feel freeing to set it down. If it doesn’t, then you’re ready to figure out a better way to think about practice.
What’s cool about either option, is back to the main lesson of Range. Time spent trying nearly anything is valuable if you come away with information about it, yourself, or both.
Keep an eye on the podcast: I’ll be talking about Range there, too.
*If this seems overly extreme of confronting, that means this post is especially for you. There’s something sensitive this post touches on—and it’s worth considering if your passion is not built on something sustainable, or if the idea of walking away is truly unthinkable. Just like fear and anger feel remarkably similar, so too do relief and calm focus. I am an anti-snob, I want more people doing this, I do not believe any of the nonsense ivory tower orthodoxy so much of string culture seems to thrive on. I would never advocate for someone who is making slow progress to quit. Slow is fine. The question to ask is: am I willing to examine why I’m doing this? What it means to me if I’m not perfect? What it means if if walk away? Is it lesson anxiety or do you actually hate lessons? Is it a plateau or does your brain shut off during practice? Do you feel bad about yourself when someone else succeeds, or are you able to be excited for them?
Don’t be afraid to ask these questions. I’ve had to ask them numerous times. I once took two months off of lessons against my parents’ wishes and it was the best thing ever for my relationship with the cello.
Hugs,
em