It’s been theorized that infinite monkeys sitting at infinite typewriters for an infinite amount of time would eventually produce the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. We are not infinite. We do not have that kind of time. In this regard, the monkeys have us beat.

But we’re much, much better at planning than infinite monkeys.

So, what are you actually doing while you practice?

During one lesson, I rose to a G4 that didn’t feel quite right. It was stuffy, overly covered, small, effortful. I stopped myself, ashamed. “That wasn’t good.”

“Lucas,” he replied, “what do you want that sound to be?”

I paused. I hadn’t considered it.

“...I guess, more open? More free?”

“Okay. Do it like that.”

Thinking about Not Thinking doesn’t work.

But if I earned a dollar each time I heard “you’re just overthinking,” I’d pay my student loans and retire on the rest. So, what’s the solution?

For today, I might be a bit stocky,

But that is not an indictment of worth:

I don’t need a “better” body.

I need another shirt.

I open the email with the generalized title. I wish they’d tell me in the subject line.

I do the same thing every time: Scan for cue words. There’s a “thank you” but no “congratulations.” Bad sign.

By the time I read the words “record number of applicants” I know where this is going. I grip the phone. A lump grows in my throat. I scan past “cannot offer you” and turn my screen off and freeze. The next couple of hours are going to suck.

“Let’s call that ‘martellato,’” my teacher said. “Try it.”

“I hear it,” I said, “but I don’t think I can do that myself.”

“Well, can you do it slow?”

I sang the same aria for everything: “Dawn, still darkness.” As an immigrant with a sibling, I know the Refugee’s plight; the fear of the immigration officer, the pain of separation from my “twin.” I believed that aria showed the best of everything I was as an artist.

So it stung extra hard when my teacher told me to stop singing it.

Purely technical reasons. I was tensing my jaw and blowing out the middle. It’d work itself out in a couple of months, but it wasn’t a viable professional product at the time. “In fact,” he suggested, “it may be wise not to audition for companies this season.”

I heard his strong, wise counsel and elected to ignore it, deciding to take my first audition as a “learning experience.”

The tempo is too slow.

I feel my chest, my shoulders, my ribs compressing in an effort to eke out every last molecule of air before I desperately gasp to repeat the same damn process, with greater effort each time. My larynx must be somewhere between my eyeballs by now, and every rising half step invites greater tension into my jaw. Now my neck. Now my tongue. This isn’t fun at all–expression is dead, I don’t care what the words mean anymore, and the physical pain I feel is matched by the psychic pain of self-judgement. “Damn it, I was supposed to be better than this,” I tell myself. “I should be able to manage this, why does my technique fall apart so easily?” I’m doubting my talent, my intelligence, my musicianship, myself. After two to seven excruciating minutes, the pianist faces me and asks: “Sorry, was that too slow?”

I manage to contort my face into a grin. “No, it’s fine!”

“Okay, do you want to try it again?”

(me, internally: God no please no)

Me, cheerily aloud: “Sure!”

Inevitably, you’re going to get the question. When it happens, it’s best to have responses at the ready that don’t compromise your honesty, but don’t require you to disclose more than you’d like. The following are some witty responses I use that generally don’t invite further questioning. I’ve divided them into categories, so you can have an honest response regardless of the situation you find yourself in.

Either deadpan or hyperbolically energetic delivery is best; this will generally either get a laugh out of the person asking, or make them a little uncomfortable. The former will make everyone feel better, the latter will hopefully keep them from asking again. Enjoy!

It happens from time to time. I’m depressed, or anxious, or exhausted. Maybe I had a fight, or I’m stressed about work, or I’m feeling inadequate because blogs don’t pay bills. Maybe I don’t even know what’s bothering me, until some well-meaning schmuck with a shit-eating grin schleps in and greets me in standard form:

“Hi! How are you?”

I grind my teeth. I am about to lie.

I’m a man. I sing alto. My voice has always been happier in this range, and I am grateful that pioneers like Alfred Deller and Russell Oberlin paved the way for my voice to be considered valid in the world of classical music.

It’s time we made space for the female tenor.

CW: Religion

I’m not sure I’m willing to let the stars determine who I fall in love with. I’m of the belief that if someone is important to you, you see through the differences and make things work. Most things can be overcome through hard work, healthy communication, and a good old-fashioned stubborn insistence on…

…Wait. Shit. I’m a Taurus.

CW: Depression, sexuality, repression, rejection, rejection sensitive dysphoria

“If you take a child who’s great at math,” my therapist began, “and put him in a room with a stranger who tells him he can’t, you will watch that child close up and lose access to his talent.”

“But if that same child is simply allowed to be, you will watch him flourish.”

Of course. My consciousness freed from the voice of the commentator, I could now apply it simply to executing whatever task was at hand. Performing was no longer applied to my identity. I did not need to “do” in order to “be,” but in simply “being,” I was finally able to “do.”

CW: sexuality, repression, non-affirming religious institutions, dissociation/dysphoria

“It’s as if I’m an athlete on a field,” I explained, “But I’m really the commentator in the box. And I’ve got nothing nice to say about what I’m doing.”

Offhandedly, I mentioned sexuality.

“Are you gay?” He asked, quite simply, and with a matter-of-fact disposition that did not assume it knew the answer. It caught me off guard. I gulped.

“I don’t know.”

Emergency Crisis Resources.