I think I’m improving. On the guitar. I’ve been practicing every day, having faith that, though I don’t notice much happening, I’m slowly getting better. Trying to put in the hours that—as Malcolm Gladwell says—will make a difference. And, lo and behold, the other day I realized that my strum wasn’t too bad. Yes, it’s taken me forever to get a decent strum, one that doesn’t feel like the pick is getting stuck in the strings. Now it mostly feels sort of smooth—and faster! I can almost do one of those Jesus strums where they throw in a really fast bangity-bang.

So I’m working on the fundamentals—strumming exercises, picking exercises, strumming and picking exercises, scales. I turn on the metronome, set the five-minute timer, and go into a trance of repetition on cross-picking or some such. It can drive Wendy crazy, so I usually close my door. What I find encouraging is that these exercises are fun for me. It’s like a game where the object is to perfect something—a sound, a movement—that I’m never quite able to perfect. The idea—the hope—is that the imperfections will get smaller and smaller until they disappear into texture.

I will never be excellent; I’m too clumsy and probably too old. I do expect, however, to be good enough.