Moving Forward

I love learning.

My hope and intent is to be a life-long learner.

But one of the things I've discovered I need to learn is . . . how to apply what it is I've learned.

Every pianist wants to become a better pianist. When a pianist learns something new about fingering, or expression, or interpretation, they want to apply it to their work. But it's impossible for them to go back in time and play something differently than they played it a week ago. The "play" is finished. They must take what they've learned and apply it moving forward.

I learned the hard way that when you make an error when you're painting a watercolor, the error isn't going to disappear. You can't go back and fix it. You have to move ahead with what you've learned and work with what you've got. (My first-ever watercolor (above) is a wonderful beach scene with waves and colorful sky and that beachy-grass . . . and a pine tree on the left-hand side. A bird that was oh-so-bad turned into a pine cone turned into a tree branch. But it's framed and in our bedroom.)

How about what I learn regarding writing? It can be paralyzing. Rather than moving forward with what I've learned, I stop the presses, literally, go back full of angst, and attempt to redo everything. In a way, it's terrible that the option to rewrite even exists.

In the last week I've learned more about scenes than I knew the week before. My heart loves the new knowledge, even though there's this enormous chain that is tugging it under water with the perfectionist's need to go back and fix everything—even if it doesn't need fixing. As much as a heart requires blood (knowledge and excitement) pumping through it, it also requires air—the freedom to move forward. (Okay, so I don't know biology . . . but you know what I mean.)

I've decided to be the pianist for at least a day or two. To move forward with new learning. To not let it paralyze me. To let the new knowledge settle and attach itself to the way I work, becoming a fully formed, natural place from which to operate.

We'll see how far I get.

CR: Deception by Randy Alcorn.

It's all better with friends.

Definition of Discipline . . . Aargh!

From Merriam-Webster's (emphasis mine) discipline 1: Punishment 2: Instruction 3: a field of study 4: training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character 5a: control gained by enforcing obedience or order b: orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior.

My keyword when I wrote my goals for this year? Discipline. I want a keyword for next year that means the same thing, but doesn't include punishment in its definition. Any suggestions?

Some things I've learned about writing every day: I get better; uncertainty doesn't have a chance to settle in; it's easier to see where my story needs to go; when people ask if I've been writing, my answer doesn't require justification.

One reason I've learned recently why I stop writing every day: I'm in the middle of some intense learning curve. Did I mention I have a mentor? Colleen Coble. A little bit of learning doesn't seem to phase me. But an intense amount? It needs to flow into me and coalesce. Get that skimmy stuff on top that real hot chocolate gets. Then, I need to stir it up a bit, sip it slow, and digest it. And finally, it needs to seep out my pores and into real life application. I guess that's how you teach this old dog new tricks, but as long as chocolate is involved . . . love it!

I heard a business coach say one time that if he scheduled something on his daily calendar, it didn't guarantee it would get done, but odds were against it ever happening if he didn't. Whether you're an SOTP (seat-of-the-pants) writer, a detailed plotter--or something in between--plotting your day can at least make you feel you've accomplished something when it's over.

Today I found myself behind before I started. I'll have to rely on that old stand-by skill called prioritization if I'm to get to those rewrites. And I will.

After I find some chocolate.

It's all better with friends.