In the last week or so, I released four songs as my music project, Useful Fiction.
I also got coffee with my friend, Jesse.
We met at a new coffee/yoga bar (that’s correct) and caught up on life since I’ve been away. Jesse makes music too—soon he’s releasing my favorite song he’s ever made— and we share a love of places and their cultures. Although, it’s hard to compare myself to Jesse in that department; he’s fluent in five languages and keeps up with friends in a dozen countries. By comparison, I’ve lived in two states and I’m kind of learning Spanish.
We talked some about the balance of hobbies, passions, and careers. For me, making music is a combination of hobby + passion. I’m fighting to make writing a passion + career.
It’s funny when you make music. A small portion of people look down on it, and I almost understand why. They imagine the only reason you’d do it is to try to make it as some rockstar—which, yeah, not super likely.
At the same time, what’s wrong with doing things you love? People golf and play video games. I love running, so I do it. I love creating music, so I do it too.
Jesse loves speaking languages and connecting with people from other places and cultures, so he cultivates friendships that span the globe.
Recently, he told me, he’d gotten too caught up in plans to professionalize his passion. It ended with a sense of burnout at the thing that usually brought him joy. He got lost in the chase. I know the feeling.
There’s nothing wrong with trying to make a living from your passions. Like I said, I’m working at it now. But it is difficult, and it can be uniquely exhausting. You pick up as play something that becomes a passion, and suddenly you’re aiming to professionalize. It can lose the joy that ignited you in the first place.
In the trying, there’s a forgotten power. It’s found in returning to play.
Play is a deep, liberating breath that keeps us sane after pressure has increased.
It’s the reason you never see a stiff drummer. All musicians groove along to their music to some extent. However, the drums are a particularly physical instrument. Counterintuitively to new drummers, tightening up and focusing on each movement doesn’t correlate to more accurate playing. Research shows that drummers must allow themselves to feel the beat and move along in order to increase their accuracy. At least, that’s what my drum teacher told me.
When you sense yourself losing the beat, tightening up makes you—well, more loose. But loosening up will tighten up your playing.
It’s true in the physical sense; it’s also true with passions.
In 2017, one drummer left the band he’d helped form—the band that then represented most of his musical career. He was a fixture of the group, and fans were devastated.
Darren King posted a video with thoughts about his departure from MuteMath. I didn’t understand his words at the moment, but I was living them.
“I feel like I’m playing music for the first time in years,” was one statement—with special emphasis on the word play. He described years of pressure in the band, of recording albums, of trying to stay on top of trends and create something relevant. He was a renowned drummer, but he’d lost the pleasure of it.
Now, he was playing again.
In a way so true that it’s almost cartoonish, King’s words matched my creative cycle. Great musical ideas would come to me on a drive, or I’d make a happy accident with guitar in hand. But I didn’t know I could use these amateurish ideas. Instead, I’d channel their inspiration to sit down and “get serious” about making a song. But the well would be dry. Frustrated, I’d walk away, until play again inspired me to seriousness.
At this time, the music I especially loved had strong sound design. Pristine production. I couldn’t do that. Put aside the technology it would have taken that I couldn’t afford at the time—I’m just not a producer. I felt paralyzed, incapable of putting together something serious.
Since then (and for reasons I don’t have time to unpack) my tastes are different. I like instrument songs. I’m no purist, and I’m certainly no professional, but I like songs that you imagine real people playing. You can pick out the instruments that ground a song, even while they’re surrounded by production, loops, etc.
My music has an amateur feel, and that’s okay. I’m an amateur.
And look, I’m proud of it. This isn’t a too-cool, defense-mechanism, lower-your-expectations type of thing. Because two things can be true. Passion and play: I want these to coexist, not compete.
The same is true with this newsletter. Where else do you read serious, heartfelt reflections on topics so trivial as traffic behaviors?
I’m writing this post about me, but I want it to be about you.
In 2023, we have incredible ability to make music, learn languages, build businesses, and way more. But the dark side of this ability is expectation. Whether from ourselves or others, we pick up the expectation to be an instant professional.
But passions—and even professional ventures—will expire if starved of play. There’s always room for progress, but there’s always time for enjoyment.
You can try to make it as a pro, but never forget: you’re still an amateur.