Adam Robinson (co-founder of the Princeton Review, among other major accomplishments) tells the story of returning to NYC after finishing his law degree at Oxford. He’s 25 years old and is having a conversation with a major Broadway producer.

The producer asks Adam, “So what are you going to do now?”

Adam replies, “I’m going to be a writer!”, with the kind of enthusiasm often seen when you ask a young boy about his Halloween costume.

The producer says nothing. After a minute of staring Adam down, he eventually says, “Well, I guess you better have something to say!”

Now it’s Adam’s turn to fall silent.

Instead of becoming a writer, he starts making things, building businesses, becoming a ranked Grand Master in chess.

He still hasn’t written a screenplay, but he’s got a lot to show for himself anyways.

And now, he has something to say.

In high school, I had a thought that I really liked: When you really know a place, you know the puddles.

I mean the literal puddles, the pools of water that form when it rains. When you get to know a place - a backyard, a neighborhood, a park, a school - you can picture where the puddles will be the next time it rains, even if you’re thousands of miles away.

Sure, if you’re there, you can predict puddle placement pretty perfectly (how’s that for alliteration?) on a dry day by looking at the dips and discoloration on the ground - but when you’ve spent time in a place for a long time, in rain and sunshine, night and day, over and over…you’re not just predicting.

You know where those puddles will be and what they’ll look like, without ever consciously trying to learn.

You’ve spent enough time there to absorb the minutest details.

And I’m willing to bet, whether you loved or hated the place, that by the time you know the puddles, that place has been an important part of your story.

Where’s a place where you know the puddles?

When was the last time you left your house without a specific destination? Or, if you had a destination, when was the last time you started heading there without exact directions from an app, a map, or a friend?

We expect creative people (that is, everybody) to be able to branch out and make something new, to metaphorically go somewhere they’ve never been.

But how can we expect people to venture forth boldly in their creative lives when they hardly ever practice doing so in their physical lives?

If you really want to nurture creativity in your life, exercise your openness, receptiveness, and curiosity by getting lost somewhere; by exploring a (preferably safe) place without holding an agenda. Just see and notice.

What you find may surprise you.

I missed a day in my blogging streak - but, hey, I kept it up for two weeks straight!

More often than not, the failure of a single day matters less than the cumulative action of consecutive days, weeks, months, and eventually, years.

So I’ll keep writing, keep learning, keep trying to grow.

Because that’s what it’s really about.

Yesterday, I got some feedback from a couple of my professors.

The first came from my choral conducting teacher. Our in-class projects for the rest of the semester are to teach and rehearse an assigned portion of the Beethoven Mass in C, and the conductors receive feedback from the class and our professor after each 12-minute session. After I finished, Dr. S turned to me and said, “Lots of singing, not much talking - I can tell you’ve been in the trenches.”

The second comment came from my advisor, at the end of a Vocal Coaching class, where I accompany undergrad musical theatre singers as they’re coached in acting through song. After the singers had left, my advisor turned to me and said, “You’re having a Piano Renaissance over there - you’re really playin’ it!”

As my first semester of grad school draws to a close, I was very glad to receive these words of encouragement. More than just empty bragging, they represent to me a couple important - and universal - lessons about honing a craft.

First, Dr. S’s comment recognizing that I have experience. The truth is, I have quite a bit of experience working with choirs (for someone who doesn’t do it for a living). At one time, I had seriously considered entering the profession.

But more importantly, the lesson here is in emphasizing experience over essentialism. Specifically, Dr. S recognizes that facility and skill are the products of doing the work when the stakes are real - what we call experience. This is in contrast with essentialism, meaning whatever ability someone has innately, as part of their essence. For anyone trying to master a skill, one’s experience will ultimately matter more than whatever seedlings of skill they’re born with.

Second, my advisor’s comment about my piano playing. This was particularly meaningful to me because pianistic excellence is one of my 5 major goals in attending grad school. This goal in particular has not been an idle one - nearly every single day since I was given access to a piano here in Cincinnati, I’ve spent a couple of hours alone at the keyboard, applying the principles of deliberate practice and deep work. I record every vocal coaching, voice lesson, and major practice session that I play for, and then I review and analyze the tapes, seeking out every opportunity to improve.

Some people view giving this kind of time consistently as a sacrifice, something that then entitles them to feelings of superiority or martyrdom.

To me, the time I spend every day trying to get better is simply the toll one must pay to cross the bridge into the Land of Being World-Class.

I leave you with a quote I first heard from one of my earliest mentors when I was twelve years old:

“If you want to be the best, you’ve got to pay the price.”

Today, I’m publicly committing to change my life circumstances over the next 18 months.

I’m publicly stating that I will sign a Pamphlet B contract as the Associate Music Director for the Broadway National Tour of a show that I genuinely admire and enjoy by the end of May 2021.

I will do this because it will radically change the course of my life for the better, affording me relationships, experiences, and financial security that will improve not only my life, but the lives of my wife-to-be and the rest of our family (including our new dog!).

In exchange, I will give everything I have, heart and soul, to maintaining and growing my physical health, vitality, and vigor; to honing my musical skills until I am a world-class pianist and conductor; to learning deeply about the styles and repertoire of musical theatre; to being genuinely likeable and friendly by passionately caring for and striving to serve others; to practicing financial discipline; to bravely trying new things, both musically and otherwise; and to striving mightily to become the best choice among great options.

For all these reasons and more, I commit to becoming the Associate Music Director on a Pamphlet B National Tour by May 31, 2021.

-Dean Balan

Graduate Study Rooms
Blegen Music Library
College-Conservatory of Music
University of Cincinnati
Cincinnati, OH

Yesterday, I was in a great mood while drafting my daily blog post. In the middle of writing, I took a break and happened to catch sight of my reflection in a mirror. I noticed some trivial flaw in my appearance, a physical trait that always makes me self-conscious. I went back to my writing feeling icky and mildly depressed.

No big deal, right? Happens to people all the time. But my self-consciousness was so distracting, I couldn’t even finish writing my post. I kept looking around at people, almost wishing I were invisible.

My solution was to metaphorically put down my blog and literally pick up my journal and a pen. I started writing, just to myself, but now, I’d like to share a short snippet with you:

Just now, I became highly self-conscious of…

…but then, a line from Tony de Mello sprang to my mind: “You were perfectly happy just a few minutes ago - nothing has changed, only your perception.” Why feel sorry or sad or self-conscious? Nothing has changed.

The effect was powerful. Realizing that I’d literally been upbeat and chipper under the exact same circumstance I was now lamenting jarred me out of my funk. I was still the same; my body hadn’t changed. Only my awareness of it.

Clearly, the physical condition that I was loath to be reminded of had nothing to do with my mood - I could be more than happy despite having it; in fact, I had been.

The point is, my mood was not a direct consequence of having some defect in my appearance. If that were the case, I’d constantly be depressed, because this flaw is never going away. And yet I’ve experienced great happiness - and great sorrow - regardless of my physical imperfections. No need to cut short my happiness now if the same defect hadn’t phased me before.

So be depressed if you’re depressed, or be joyful if you’re so moved - but don’t let a trivial shift in perception disturb you if Reality itself never actually changed.

I almost did. Silly me.

Everyone I know has relationship(s) in their life that they feel they “should” be nurturing or cherishing more. Maybe they feel like they don’t spend enough time with their parents, or they don’t appreciate their dog enough. Maybe they don’t always show their gratitude for their kids or their spouse.

Whatever the case may be, people seem to universally “know” they should be more attentive, more grateful, more something with the people in their lives - but, typically, they don’t change. I know I haven’t. Not really.

So maybe a better way to prompt some change would be to reframe your thinking using a scenario that I first encountered in Tim Ferriss’s book, "Tribe of Mentors".

When you’re agitated or impatient with your [parents, spouse, kids, pets, business partner, cult leader, etc.] - (or even if you’re not) - ask yourself, “If my [parent, spouse, kid, etc.] were to pass away suddenly, how much money would I pay to be able to have one more moment with them?” Or, if they’re being particularly aggravating and frustrating, ask yourself immediately, “How much money would I pay just to have this experience - this terrible, irritating situation - back in my life, just one last time?”

It’s a little heavy, but it does help us put things in perspective.

Just something to consider.