1. Practice 10 hours.
2. Practice The Gambler and No One is to Blame until they are fluid and memorized.
Practice, Yes. Fluid, No.
3. Pick a 3rd cover song.
Oh, I don't know. I can't decide. There's a reason I make up my own stuff: I'm not good at playing other people's stuff. The Gambler is cool, but that's for a select audience in a specific mood. I can't just walk in and play that anywhere anytime. This goal makes me want to make a lot of guttural noises and stomp around.
4. Attend an open mic.
Yes, thanks to Super Becky, who managed to prod my butt off the couch at 9:00 p.m. 9:00 p.m. start time! On a school night! Don't they know my sleep schedule? And the first act didn't even go on until 9:30. So I sat there next to Becky--who knew 500 people at the bar--nodding into my beer.
That's a lie. I wasn't nodding into my beer. And Becky didn't know 500 people. Just 3. I was rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants. Just being there and thinking about it made me want to hide. We stayed long enough for 2 people. 2 man people. They were both good. And they both had confidence and didn't seem to actually care any of us were there. I found it intimidating. I feel okay about my voice (although it gets pretty flimsy when I'm all yodeling goat nervous), but I am a really really clumsy guitar player. Really clumsy. Not clean at all. And I have absolutely no clear perspective on whether or not my songs are stupid. Sometimes I play them, and I think, "Hey, look at you! These aren't bad!" And other times I feel riddled with embarrassment that so much corn casserole is in my soul.
I play them for Chris and try to read his reaction. Which isn't really fair. I have never cared whether or not he likes my hair or the clothes I'm wearing. Don't care if he likes something I painted or a poem I wrote. And I have never ever asked him if my butt looks big. But music? That's where I get weak and snively. He knows how uber-sensitive I am about it, how insecure. What's he going to say? Wow, you suck ass, sucker sucka! Of course not. He will point out the things about it that he liked, and then I will infer all the things about it he didn't like (and that the compliments were LIES! all LIES!).
On that note, when it comes to something I feel genuinely insecure about, I have a painfully hard time with compliments. (I cannot think of one single thing that I feel more insecure about than making music in front of Other People. Not one single thing.) If I feel insecure, no matter what you say, I will think you are lying. If I win an award, I will think 99% of the audience watching me win the award is thinking, "I can't believe trash like that won an award." If you compliment me on something very specific ("Oh, I like what you did with that one note there."), I will think you had to work really really hard to find something good to say. It's a no-win situation, really, so most of the time, I wish no one would say anything at all. (And then when you say nothing at all, I will think, "See? They're not saying anything at all! It was so horrible, they probably feel awkward and embarrassed for me!" and I will wish that you would say something.)
Summary: You, as the one tasked with being supportive, are screwed.
5. Scratch out vocals and lyrics to a 4th and naked guitar line I made up a long time ago.
Check! And I like it. It's kind of fun and means nothing. It's about 3 friends at a bar on a Saturday night.
Or is it stupid and worthless? Maybe it's horrible. Ask me tomorrow. Ask me 10 minutes from now. I've already changed my mind.
6. Set a due date. I can't drag this thing out forever. Maybe February?
Thursday, February 3. Lunar New Year. Seems fitting.
I've decided to rip this thing off like a bandaid. I will rip the lid off my soul, strip my psyche naked, fly my freak flag, and several other metaphorical acts that represent vulnerability and possible humiliation. Also, I may barf (not a metaphor).
My goal for the next 14 days is to breathe and not barf and to practice until I suck less.