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I still remember my parents’ reactions, 30 years ago, when I declared I was going to major in piano.

You would have thought I had announced a death. 

And in a way, I had: My decision was seen as nothing less than career suicide. I had started out as a pre-med, not so much because I wanted to become a doctor, but because kids with high math and science scores were steered that way and I had no better ideas of my own. But pre-med was never a good fit (for one thing, you kind of had to go to classes), and after I fell in with an arty crowd, any hope of passing organic chemistry was quickly extinguished. I don’t remember how exactly it was that I found myself staring up at the practice rooms at the music school, listening to the sounds of Beethoven Sonatas and Chopin Ballades pouring out into the plaza below, wondering if I could get in, wondering if I should audition. I’m thinking it was some combination of late adolescent angst, hubris, misplaced ambition, romanticism, and I think a broken heart may have figured in there somewhere (Not you, David). Somehow, I got the process started, and got through the application and the audition. I don’t remember what I thought the future would hold: I was certainly given no reason to believe that my talents were in any way exceptional at this level of playing, or that being a concert pianist was really in the cards. But I was 19, and I’m sure I didn’t think the rules of life applied to ME. I still thought anything was possible, while at the same time, I didn’t have a clue as to what that might mean, or require. Still, something drew me to the practice rooms to struggle with Mussourgsky and Chopin and Bach and Bartok.   

Later, I compounded my career choice ”disaster” by taking an internship as a writer, working for the former music critic of the Chicago Tribune. At the end of my senior year, I strode out into the world armed with my music degree and writing internship.

And became a bank teller. 

But only for a while: I was eager to write and to play music, and so I wrote and played. I landed some freelance writing assignments and a handful of music gigs: accompanying here, recording there, playing at a few dinner parties and such. It wasn’t a great living, but it was a great life, and I could make the rent. Finally, I got a “real” job working for a tiny music magazine. 

Why this trip down memory lane? Quite simply, for some years now, it has become more and more apparent to me that majoring in music and becoming a writer and musician and music teacher (not to mention editor, blogger, and photographer) is probably the best career decision I’ve ever made. I think about all the “sensible” choices I could have made instead — all those business jobs people have where they can’t even explain to their kids what exactly it is that they do all day – and wonder if I would even have survived them. Not to mention the vulnerability to layoffs, which I think has to be one of the most frightening things in the world. Being an independent writer and musician has never made for the most lucrative living, but it has made for an incredibly rich life. 

I know I’ve been lucky. But I also know that there is something very tangible and real to the notion of “following your bliss.” Martin Luther said, when asked why he took on the entire Roman Catholic Church and nailed his complaints to the wall in Wittenberg, “Ich kann nicht anderes.” (“I cannot do otherwise.”)  I feel the same way about pursuing creative work and working for myself. And when you “cannot do otherwise,” then you MUST do your best.

In this economy, it seems that every day brings news of more jobs lost, more stores closing, more disasters just down the road. I am grateful every day that I practiced seriously enough and long enough that I can play the piano well, that I know how to teach and enjoy doing it, that I love to write, and that I have been able to find outlets and markets and clients – not always the ones I want, not always when I want them, but they are always there, somewhere. If I keep showing up, so does the work.

I think that my mom and dad STILL worry that I’m in imminent danger of losing the house, of not making ends meet, and possibly, of moving back into the bedroom I had when I was six. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I’m not sure if there’s a secret to freelance success, but I can tell you what has kept me feeling in control (all the while knowing that control is an illusion): For me, it’s been living quite conservatively,  paying off credit cards, not overextending on weird mortgages, keeping track of income and outgo, making necessary adjustments, working long hours when the work is there, and always keeping an eye out for the next gig. 

So thanks for the piano lessons, mom and dad. Thanks for taking me to the library every week so I could learn to love reading and books. You may not have convinced me to become a doctor, but in a weird sort of way, you gave me the tools to be happy. When the thing you love is your job — you never really have to work. You do it the way you breathe.