I recently returned from a two-week band tour of the Mid-Atlantic. By all accounts, it was a successful tour.
-I achieved my goals of reading and writing per day
-We had great audiences
-Leaf peeping was in great form (a term I learned from The West Wing 🛎️ ☑️)
-We visited another rock history mainstay: Stax Records in Memphis, TN.
When talking with my friend about our concerts each night, we both felt that we phoned it in more often than not. We weren’t entirely “present” or “mindful” with the music making. We got the notes, the dynamics, the emotions of each piece… but it was another show in a long series of shows.
Some days are like that, even with art. Paint a tree. Dot the i and cross the t. Play loud and soft, high and low, fast and slow. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a professional. I stand by my work. I try to make “great” my default setting, and I most definitely do my best to avoid mistakes. Some days, the puck barely makes it through the uprights, but it still counts as a home run, right? 🏒 ⚾️ 🧐
Is every day going to be an A+, MVP, Hall of Fame day? Nope. Not by a long shot.
At the moment, I’m currently fighting a case of “B-minus syndrome.” It’s not quite “impostor’s syndrome,” but it lives next door.
I just submitted the final version of a short story for an anthology. (Yay, right?) I took on some significant artistic challenges in the story, and after considering a litany of comments and suggestions from other writers, I finished it. Wahoo.
The nagging concern is it feels like a B-minus final exam, nothing more. You know, the one you place on the teacher's desk where you say, “This won’t hurt my grade, but it won’t help it either.”
I didn't write an everyday, ordinary story. This is a second-person, present-tense, two non-speaking objects talking to each other in outer space kind of wacky Jay adventure. Why? Because my entire life is a “What does this button do?” moment that I can’t manage to stop experiencing, that’s why.
I believe the story is good. I believe in the message and the theme, my artistic vision, and what I was trying to do! BUT… eh? I don’t know. It’s got that B-minus feeling all over it. Sure, you may ask to read it. Doesn’t mean I’m going to send you a file in 4.6 seconds and wait by my email for your reaction. My gut wants to say, “Nah, you don’t have to read it.”
I should be overjoyed that I did this thing, and I’m not. It’s not sub-par, and I don’t want to back out of the anthology… but I’m lacking in pride.
So, Jay, why don’t you pull it from the anthology?
Because I worked hard on it, it’s a clever story, and I want to support my fellow writers in the project. Plus, the authors are sending all profits accumulated from sales to charity. I want to be a part of that noble effort.
But Jaaay, you don’t think it’s your best work. Sure you want that out there in the world?
I’ve pulled stories before that flat-out didn’t work. This isn’t that. It’s good, but not GREAT.
But Jaaaaaaay, what if you—
LEAVE ME ALONE, NAGGING VOICE IN MY HEAD! IT’S DONE!
(See what I did there? I ended it with a B-minus response. Could have resolved all the answers, but I cut that crap off, and moved on.)
From 1992-2003, I sought magical quotes to inspire me and my musical pursuits. They came from my private teachers (“Take a breath of air. It don’t cost nothing”), from athletes (“All-Stars need to play like All-Stars,” Terry Bradshaw before Super Bowl XXXI), and from the movies. In “The Devil’s Advocate,” Al Pacino’s character mentors a pre-Matrix, baby-faced Keanu Reeves, and he says a magical line of dialogue that I have held onto after all these years. (Hint, it’s at 0:15)
As an unemployed, audition-seeking bass trombonist, this line lit me on fire. No one gets points for just “doing the thing.” The memorable moments are when you do your best and when it counts.
“Can you summon your talent at will?”
Your millionth note/word/brush stroke will likely be someone’s first impression, and you hope to whatever higher power of your belief system that it lands and lands big.
I could be very wrong about my short story. I may have Mona Lisa’ed my way into history. What I think is a moldy turd could actually be my Jonas Salk moment. Probably not, but you never know.
In October of 2019, I likely sealed my legacy with the Air Force Band when we performed Shostakovich’s “Festive Overture” in Miami. The performance was video recorded and posted on YouTube, which has elevated my status as “that guy,” at least in the bass trombone world. (I’m sure you can find it, if you haven’t seen it yet.) I’m proud, I’m slightly embarrassed, and now I’m bass trombone famous. Every time I meet high school and college bass trombonists who have seen the video, they look at me with stunned amazement, enter a Neanderthal state, and begin grunting, as bass trombonists are wont to do. Honestly, that was one tour concert out of hundreds where I played what was in the folder. Did I phone it in that night? I don't even remember. Sometimes, the result is something astounding… or something else.
(For the record, the praise wasn’t universal, and I’m glad.)
So what can you do? Adhere to the fundamentals and artistic principles you value as an artist, and do the best you can with what you’ve got. Eventually, the time will run out, and you’ll have to turn in your work, whether it is “perfect” or not.
“Good enough” sometimes is good enough… I hope.
It’s now a “was.” Already happened. On to the next thing, and to #KFW!
Write on!
Next door to imposter syndrome is an apt analogy. I’ve been afflicted with this feeling for 2 months and know that the cure will be an overhaul of the root cause in my work, but for now I’m forestalling until I have the mental fortitude to resolve it. Thanks for this, Jay!
That was you on that recording? 😏 Hopefully, nobody discovers the Holst recording.