About Practice

From 6th grade through high school, I spent a good chunk of time playing the Viola. It wasn’t the coolest instrument, but I liked it. Childhood me picked it because it was like the violin, just less squeaky. I wanted to play the drums too but I didn’t have enough elective slots (I was already juggling tennis and learning Spanish).

Learning anything comes down to two things: practice and performance.

“Trumpet Practice” (1950, Norman Rockwell)

Most of my time was spent playing in the school orchestra class or performing in symphony concerts. Both gave me some anxious excitement. I didn’t want to mess up in front of my classmates or parents or community. At the same time, I wanted to be good enough that people would notice. Luckily, I had some natural aptitude.

I was first chair and consistently making regional orchestra, but if I wanted to aim any higher, I’d need to practice outside of school. My teacher recommended taking private lessons, and I acquiesced. Once a week, I’d go to Ms. Granata’s house and we’d work on technique or competition pieces.

Pretty soon I fell into a cadence. Each week Ms. Granata would assign me something to take home and work on. I’d do nothing for 5 days, then cram the night before the lesson like it was finals. I’d show up at the next lesson better, but not enough to fool anyone. Ms. Granata knew. My parents knew.

I remember telling my mom — “I don’t like practicing. I just like playing.”¹

It was honest, yet foolishly naïve of course. You can’t play well without practice. And if you don’t play well, it’s not fun for long. But I hadn’t gotten to the point of really sucking yet. I was still getting away with it. Performing was still fun, especially with all the other instruments and full-bodied musical arrangements and acoustics in concert.

Eventually I did hit a wall. I made the coveted all-state orchestra, but I didn’t place as high as I wanted. It became clear that I’d have to practice more — probably a lot more — if I wanted to keep improving at a pace that felt good, and reaching higher performance heights.

And I didn’t really want to. Practicing was the problem. And that was the signal.

I liked playing, but I didn’t love it enough to make it my life. I wasn’t willing to put in the hours of practice to be great. Even the allure of unlocking new levels of performance wasn’t enough to energize me. There were other things I’d rather be doing with my time. And that mattered.

It took me a while (and plenty of stops and starts along the way) to find the lesson: just because you love performing something, doesn’t mean you love practicing it. And if you don’t love practicing something, you shouldn’t dedicate your life to it. You won’t be truly happy, and you won’t get the long-term results you want either.

Practice is about the process. Performance is about the payoff.

Practice is about progress. Performance is about praise.

Practice is for yourself. Performance is for other people.²

This applies to far more than just music. Most people don’t love their jobs — they love the benefits or identity of performing well at them: the paycheck, the title, the recognition. Sometimes they convince themselves they love the work, or they’re aware of the tradeoffs and accept them. Other times, they’re just fooling themselves. One problem with being ‘good enough’ at things is that it’s hard to quit them.

It’s harder than it often sounds too — figuring out what you actually do like to practice. The lines between practice and performance can be blurry, and we all enjoy many things to some degree (I’ve got stuck on this point many times). Everyone gives advice about “doing what you love” but no one really tells you how to figure out what that is.

I acknowledge that it’s a nebulous problem to tackle, but a worthwhile one. Ask yourself what you like to perform versus what you actually like to practice. The catch is that you can’t answer the question without trying things. You don’t find what you love in theory — you find it in practice (pun very much intended). So try things. Try them long enough that you’ve given them a fair shot.³ And pay attention to how it feels when no one’s watching.

What you like to practice is what’s worth pursuing. Getting to perform is just a bonus.

1. I’ve said “practice” enough times in this essay that I’m legally obligated to share this vintage YouTube clip of Allen Iverson talking about practice.

2. You can also get intrinsic satisfaction from performing well because it’s a part of the skill or sport too, and it’s proof of progress. But if you only like performing, then you’re probably more attached to how it feels to do well at something, not purely the thing itself. It’s blurry, but it’s a distinction worth fighting to figure out.

3. How long do you have to try? I find that 1 year in earnest is good enough to answer the practice versus performance question if you’re really paying close attention. Otherwise 2-3 years will usually take it’s mental toll on you (if it’s a meaningful part of how you spend your time).