Sometimes, practicing singing sucks. It may be my number one frustration as a singer.

Yes. I love singing. I really do. I love it entirely too much. I love it so much that occasionally, I never want to sing again, because what I’m doing or feeling is so mind-numbingly painful or unpleasant that I would rather cease making music for a day or a week or forever than continue to do something I dislike.

Singers: practicing is not always easy.

Anyone who said that you were going to go skipping to the practice room (or, in my case, a 20 year old electric keyboard [real classy, Georgeanne]) 100% of the times you’re going to have to go practice is lying to you.

But. I feel guilty when I don’t want to practice.

I think about the number of singers out there–the competition is fierce. How many of them are practicing when I’m sitting here with my dog, poking around gardening forums or watching a Cops marathon? I think about the sacrifices my mom has made–I think about the sacrifices I’ve made–for me to study music.

It seems almost like an act of rebellion to avoid practicing.

But, y’all. Not wanting to practice is okay. It’s okay. I am here to tell you it’s okay.

Maybe you’ve worked an eight hour (or more) day at the survival job you’re working to afford YAP auditions. Maybe you’ve had a fight with your mom and you just don’t feel up to anything. Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep last night because you were up working on a paper (or you were up late the previous night practicing).

What do you do in this situation? You do what you can.

Sometimes, “what you can” is small. That’s alright. If you’ve only got it in you to work on one measure, work on that one measure and then call it a day. Something is infinitely better than nothing.

Set a timer for twenty minutes. Work for those 20 minutes and then stop. Don’t judge yourself for working those 20 minutes. Don’t think about the people who worked 30 minutes or the people who worked for hours. Those people? They’re not you and they’re not feeling what you’re feeling right now. Their circumstances are different. They’re in a different place. They might as well be a world away from you.

What matters is that you’ve done what you can.

I promise you: you will get done what you need to get done. You will learn the music you need to learn by the time you need to learn it. Will you learn it all tonight? Probably not.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after, your “what I can” will look very different than what you’re feeling right now. … But tonight?

Start somewhere. Do what you can. 

I’m a singer with a great support system.

When I write my memoirs, there won’t be a chapter addressing all the people who told me I would fail.

I can’t think of a single person that has actively discouraged me in my pursuit of singing. I count that a blessing. 

The thing that sucks about having so many supportive people in my life, though, is that quite a bit of the time, I don’t know how to answer their questions.

So when are you going to hear back about X audition?

How did Y audition go?

How could you not get Z role/opportunity/audition? Why wouldn’t they want someone like you?

These are all very well-intentioned questions. They indicate interest. People care about what I do as a singer, as a developing artist. That’s comforting. It’s good to know that you have an army, however small, backing you. 

But I truly struggle with answering these questions. How much information do I give them?

“Well, audition Y went pretty well.. except when I totally botched the first high note in my aria and spent the next three measures thinking about aforementioned botching…”

“When will I hear back? Probably never. Unless it’s a three-line letter thanking me for my time and wishing me all the best.”

“Why wouldn’t they want me? Too tall. Too short. Too fat. Too thin. Too blonde. Not blonde enough. Wrong voice type. Right voice type, but no space for me. Too young. Too old. Too expressive. Not expressive enough. Singing the wrong repertoire too early. Singing the right repertoire too late…”

To avoid embarrassing episodes of word vomit, I tend to avoid answering these questions, and if I do–I don’t really answer them. And why? I’m afraid. I’m afraid of disappointing them with my answers.

That? That’s not fair. It’s not fair at all! These friends of mine deserve answers–maybe wholly unsatisfying answers, but they deserve to know something.

It’s my job, and the job of every singer, I think, to own our craft and art. Part of that owning comes in laying bare my own personal insecurities, my own fears, my own questions.

So, next time you ask me a question and I don’t give you a real answer? Do me a favor. Push me.