12 things playing the flute taught me about writing

‘Practice makes perfect’ is just the beginning…

As many a writer will tell you, words and music are very similar. Here’s what learning to play the flute has taught me about being a writer.

1. Most of the time, it’s not fun.

Want to know my definition of a professional writer? It’s someone who finds writing really, really, really hard.

Only amateurs write for fun or—heaven help us—to relax. Because finding the perfect way to say something takes a lot of effort.

Ditto with practicing an instrument: If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it right and you’ll never progress.

With both writing and music, the pleasure comes from the breakthroughs that follow the brain aches.

2. Little and often is best.

As any musician will tell you, 10 minutes of practice every day is much more effective—not to mention less daunting—than two hours once a week.

The same goes for getting into your writing groove. And with both writing and music, as you gain stamina and competence, you tend to find that those 10 minutes become 20, then 30 and beyond.

3. Getting started is the hardest part.

Most days I dread practicing and I have to force myself to pick up my flute. So I tell myself that today I’ll just blow a few long notes to keep my lips in shape. Invariably, once I’ve warmed up, the challenge is putting the instrument down.

It’s the same with writing. Force yourself to jot down those first few words and you might find yourself unable to stop.

4. Once is not enough.

You wouldn’t expect the first time you play something to be your best attempt, would you? Well, guess what? It’s the same with writing: Why would you stop at your first draft?

Writers, like musicians, go back and work on the details—often again and again. Having to iron out the hiccups isn’t a sign of failure—it’s an essential part of the process.

5. You have to seek out privacy.

I feel very inhibited if I think a neighbor can hear my musical mistakes. But more mortifying still is the idea of writing with someone standing over my shoulder. Even professionals need the space to come up with a rubbish first attempt.

6. The experts know the difference between crap and an off day.

When I was preparing for my Grade 4 exam, my flute teacher told me that a trained examiner can distinguish between mistakes that stem from nerves and mistakes that stem from poor preparation.

At first, I found it hard to believe that my incompetence could be judged so acutely—until I thought about my own field.

Despite the frequently spleeny nature of my blog, I’m much more forgiving of, say, dodgy spelling and wayward punctuation than many of my peers. Typos and misplaced apostrophes may just be a sign of a writer in a rush.

Pretentious gobbledegook, on the other hand, is a symptom of a much less fixable problem: a writer one suspects is trying to hide the fact they don’t understand the topic any more than their poor, befuddled reader.

7. Keep it simple, for your audience’s sake.

A simple piece of music played well is much kinder to the ears than a complex piece that’s just beyond the ability of the player.

Ditto with writing. Striving after a faux-academic style in the hope of impressing your reader risks exposing the very lack of competence you’re keen to hide. Keep it simple, and your audience will thank you.

8. It’s OK to break the rulesif you know why you’re breaking them.

I recently read that all great musicians spend the first 10 years learning to play in time and the next 10 years learning to play out of time.

Slowing or speeding up the strict tempo of a piece is known as rubato when it’s done by people who’ve mastered music enough to use the technique expressively. It’s known as a mistake when done by me.

But if I’ve split an infinitive or started a sentence with “and,” there’s a very good reason for it. And you don’t need to immediately correct me.

9. Don’t fall into the gaps.

It sounds counterintuitive, but often a musician will tell you that the silences are just as important (if not more so) than the note. They create the structure and the feeling of anticipation that make music pleasurable.

Playing in a band quickly teaches you to respect the power of the silences: You really don’t want to be the person responsible for that rogue bird chirrup in an otherwise perfect rendition of Grieg’s Morning Mood. It’s what one conductor I knew called “falling into the gaps.”

As a writer, too, you should respect the power of the gaps.

Be liberal with the full stop, and use your paragraph return key often. It will help your audience make sense of your words.

10. Don’t underestimate the importance of rhythm.

I’ve lost count of the number times my teacher or a conductor has said: “Don’t worry about the notes, just get the rhythm right.”

That’s because if I play a wrong note, you might not notice. In fact, if it’s far enough from the correct note it might even sound like harmony.

But if I come in half a beat too early, you’ll immediately wince, because the pulse is fundamental.

Similarly, I can forgive poor spelling, but I can’t forgive the clunky rhythms of so much bad business writing and bureaucratese.

Typos in a well-written document are easy to fix. Plowing through noun-heavy phrases such as “Risk Management Framework Implementation” and “specialty communications infrastructure services” makes my eyes bleed.

As I’m sure that last sentence just did for you.

11. End on a long note.

Ever noticed how musical phrases often end on a long note? A classic example is the “da da da dumm” of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Take a tip from Ludwig and next time you’re listing things, put the longest element last.

Which versions of these famous lists sound better?

Life, the pursuit of happiness and liberty

or

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness

Friends, countrymen, Romans

or

Friends, Romans, countrymen

And while we’re in Rome, notice how the English translation of veni, vidi, vici compensates for the lack of alliteration and end-rhyme with a rhythm that conveys finality through a long note: I came, I saw, I conquered.

Somehow, I arrived, I observed, I triumphed just doesn’t have the same ring.

12. You’ve got to put in the hours.

I recently read that whatever your chosen field—music, football, knitting—it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become proficient in it to a professional level.

The good news is that I’ve clocked up enough hours to warrant earning a living from writing.

The even better news is that if I practice my flute for an hour every day for the rest of my life, then by my 69th birthday I’ll be able to supplement my pension with regular gigs at the Royal Albert Hall.

Are you putting in the necessary number of hours?

Clare Lynch is chief business writer and trainer at Doris and Bertie, a U.K. communications agency that helps businesspeople ditch corporate-speak and talk like human beings. Follow her on Twitter @goodcopybadcopy. This article first ran on Ragan.com in August 2011.

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