I am writing a novel and short stories. I have a part-time job that can easily take up all my time. I am helping with GCSE and AS revision, have a flat that needs decorating and deep cleaning and need to take more (or some, any to be honest) exercise.
So I have decided to learn the flute.
I always wanted to learn an instrument when I was younger. At school, lessons were private and money was too tight. I had a sad attempt at the saxophone when I started earning a wage: best forgotten.
My daughter’s father is an accomplished guitarist: teaching is not among his best qualities and my theory books went to the charity shop. Then I just seemed to do too much work, had a child, found numerous excuses and one proper reason when I had wrists encased for a year as a result of De Quervain’s syndrome.
My daughter recently passed her Grade 3 flute exam after what seems like a stunningly short time and reads music fluently (unlike revision notes.)
As today is the deadline for a short story contest, it has been the perfect week for procrastination-induced flute commencement. It has just occurred to me that I am not the only one putting things off here: teaching me the is a great get-out for not learning about natural disasters and coastal formation.
So now, after three ‘lessons,’ I can make a sound come out of the wretched thing about 50% of the time. All right, 30%. I know how to play the notes B, A, G and C and can just about recognise them written in music even with the pencil letters underneath rubbed out.
BAGs is the first piece in the baby flute book: the first three notes repeated. I should go and work on it it now and then deal with that story deadline.
Maybe it won’t be too long before flute procrastination means that I write as displacement activity.