I never liked doing my piano scales.

My parents started me on piano lessons at the age of seven (God bless ’em!), and I quickly developed what’s known as “a good ear.” It was very, very crude at first, but I was able to translate music that I heard or knew in my head into some form on the keyboard. This skill provided, and continues to provide unending pleasure at the piano. It also catalyzed the premature death of my formal piano education.

The fact that I could pick out songs I liked—never mind that they were often uber-simplistic pop songs, or at least uber-simplistic renderings—gave me increasingly little patience for the hard work required to learn unfamiliar pieces or learn to play with any kind of technical finesse. I was all too content with the catharsis and immediate gratification of my amateur playing-by-ear.

I devolved from resentfully doing my scales and putting in the work to learn a piece, to refusing to make the effort at all. Sometime in junior high, after repeatedly coming to my lessons ill prepared and unmotivated, my teacher graciously suggested that I throw in the towel.

I regret doing so every single time I sit on a piano bench.

Writing this blog is like doing my scales (I don’t claim any originality with that metaphor). Some days I rush to the computer with some topic or premise burning to get elaborated. I have a proverbial tune stuck in my head, and I can’t wait to figure out how to play it. But a lot of days (today included), the blank screen and the obnoxiously blinking cursor taunt me. I’ve got nothing to write about—no song in my head—so why not just pack it in and call it a day?

The answer to that question, for me, always goes back to the scales I refused to do. I refused to put in the hard work, the often tedious, repetitive labor required to become proficient on the piano. I was willingly tyrannized by the days when I “just don’t feel like it.” I never acquired the discipline and endurance necessary to push beyond the borders of mediocrity. And the result is a constant frustration with my limitations as a pianist.

I refuse to be similarly tyrannized as a writer. I started this blog for a number of reasons, but one explicit reason was that of a conscious discipline; producing content of a certain standard with a certain consistency. And on those days I don’t feel like writing or don’t have anything to write about, I strap my keester to the chair and point a gun at my fingers demanding that they write something. Anything. The consequences for my failure to do scales as a pianist motivate me to do my scales as a writer.

The result is the cultivation of discipline. I keep the literary rust and atrophy at bay. I thumb my nose at those don’t-feel-like-it feelings. The result, hopefully, is that I am refined as a writer. My chops improve, as does my ability to write in less-than-ideal circumstances.

The other result is this self-indulgent, vacuous entry which, I’m sure, felt an awful lot like listening to some hack do his scales.

Exhibit A

On a nondescript Wednesday in 1999 I put the pencil down, having just taken a math placement test in preparation for my freshman year of high school, and was conveyed to a nearby movie theater. There a friend and I got in line (we were the line for a few hours) for the theatrical release of Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace. I placed intermittent phone calls throughout the morning to a local FM radio station with headline-worthy updates (how grateful that DJ must have been!), befitting the sheer gravity of the situation: a new Star Wars film had arrived.

I went on to see that film in theaters nine more times.

I don’t know what it is exactly that makes someone a true “nerd.” The term is a bit nebulous, but somewhere in our collective connotation are descriptors like proficiency with computers, poor social skills, and of course, predilection for science-fiction and fantasy genres. The lines have, of course, blurred a little over the years; most people use and have some savvy with computers anymore, video games are popular across social stratifications, and film franchises like The Lord of the Rings have widespread appeal.

Still, there is some lingering, possibly undying, concept of the nerd. And whatever it is that technically makes someone a nerd, I know I most certainly am one.

Homeschooling clearly gave me an unfair advantage, what with the years of social isolation and uninterrupted presence of my mother. Where public school bullies and tacit social standards would have beaten out many of my eccentricities, those quirks were fostered and lovingly nurtured in home’s safe and uncritical environment.

Then, too, my congenital athletic deficiency. Bats and balls were typically passed over for stuffed animal theatrics and nonviolent games with such nonviolent names as “Rainbowland.”

The burgeoning home computer effortlessly became an environment where my tastes and talents could thrive. I also poured my energies into writing stories about lovable, cartoonish midgets that lived on an imaginary island. I developed a fondness for Batman and Superman cartoons and, of course, the far off, ancient world of Star Wars.

I distinctly remember trying to suppress my geeky obsession with Star Wars around 1999. Somewhere around the time when I realized that it would behoove me to start showering, combing my hair, and relegating sweatpants only to around-the-house wear, I realized on some level that Star Wars was kind of uncool. But then the trailers for Episode I arrived—with those Gungan cavalrymen mysteriously emerging from a bed of galactic fog—and I could no longer resist the truth burning inside of me: I was a nerd!

I must have completely embraced my identity as a nerd to have given that odious stinker of a film 22 hours of my time during its theatrical run. And though my tastes have changed and evolved since then, and my love for Star Wars specifically has cooled to quiet embers, I remain a nerd. Today my obsessive passions are invested in things like the niche, very uncool, genre of film music. I’ve also devoted countless hours recently reading blogs and listening to podcasts critiquing Disney theme parks. Need I say more?

The trappings of my nerddom have changed and evolved since I was a boy, but at my core there will always be a classic, hopeless, unapologetic nerd.

With the upcoming move foremost on my mind these days, I’m mulling over a conversation Alison and I had with some good friends earlier this week.

They were asking us, in mentor fashion, why we are moving to Pittsburgh. We had just outlined several of the difficulties inherent in the move, all of the unknowns and the risks we are taking. I suppose we must have painted a fairly bleak picture, because their response was an eyebrow-raised “So…why are you moving?”

And perhaps it was because we were with a very mature, older couple, but for some reason my knee-jerk response was to be completely dishonest. I don’t mean out-and-out lying, exactly. But I started giving all these lofty, noble exaggerations of why we’re moving. Reasons that are absolutely part of our desire to move, but nowhere near the main impetus. “Well, you see, we have this unquenchable passion for herons, and we’re going up there to rescue Pittsburgh’s rapidly diminishing heron population.” “We have our hearts set on adopting at least 15% of Pittsburgh’s orphan population.”*

I didn’t notice the growing discomfort on the faces of our friends as we outlined the (grossly aggrandized) selfless nobility in our moving apologetics. Finally, though, honesty reared its hideous head and I said, “Really, we just want an adventure.”

Our friends breathed a sigh of relief.

These, in my opinion, are very good friends. They were convinced that moving to have an adventure was a much healthier reason than moving to rescue orphans or enlist in the Pittsburgh Peace Corps.

Not that selfless, servant causes are poor excuses to make a big move! The real issue here is honesty. I was homilizing all these exaggerations of why we want to move, only because I felt pressure (internal, no doubt, and perceived external pressure) to have some Mother Theresa motivation for making this big change. But, honestly, what I want most is an adventure. And with that adventure I foresee all sorts of growth, serving opportunities, humbling events, challenges, and life lessons. But it is the newness, the expedition, the “undiscovered country” that most compels me.

And maybe adventure really is a lame reason. But it’s the real reason.

*These are fictional accounts. Any resemblance to an actual reason given is purely coincidental.

As all four of you already know, Alison and I are soon abandoning the seasonally monotonous Florida for the temperament melting pot of Pittsburgh.

There are many reasons for our move, to be sure, but a massive one for me is the aching hunger to once again live in a place with seasons. Sharply delineated, blustery, passionate, gloriously dissimilar seasons. I grew up looking forward to each season in Colorado, savoring each autumn and then slowly experiencing an increasing appetite for the chill of winter. But, as with most things we take for granted, I didn’t appreciate the true glory of seasons until I came to a place without them.

The most obvious benefit of spring, summer, fall, and winter are the different weather types and characteristics of nature unique to each one. Spring is such a welcome, verdant thaw to the bleakness of late winter. Summer really gets things cooking, and there’s nothing better than driving with the windows down and film music cranked up on a pleasantly sunny day. Fall takes the edge off summer and the leaves off the trees, putting a deliciously pumpkin hue on the world and a crisp breeze in the air. Winter brings romantic snowfall, holidays, and an excuse to sip hot drinks and wear warm clothes (and, let’s face it, we all look better in warm clothes). These benefits are huge, and almost feel like they’re out of a storybook to a kid living in a state perpetually stuck on “Stifling.”

But the other thing I love about seasons is their cyclical partitioning of life in general. This was more overtly true when I was in school—when autumn smelled like no. 2 pencils, winter meant Christmas and two delirious weeks without homework, spring came in through the classroom window like a distraction, and summer meant break, break, break. But seasons are a vital part of every healthy life. (I think of Ecclesiastes’ “a time for everything” passage.) The sun, moon, and tides of the ocean give silent affirmation that life functions well on a cycle. There are seasons of hard work and seasons of relaxation. There are seasons of grief and seasons of euphoric joy.

Just like nature runs on a cycle with repeated, identifiable features, we transition through different phases at different times. These phases are healthy and necessary; the variety gives spice to life while the repetition of the seasons lends a comfort and safety. Laughter is born out of sorrow; pain gives joy its searing pleasure.

These human seasons transpire regardless of whether the leaves turn orange or Christmas actually yields a “winter wonderland.” But I have found that my internal/emotional seasons are aided and complemented by similar changes in the outside air.

In keeping with that ancient, most primitive purpose of a weblog, this here blog will be a place where I log the things that I’m thinking about, things that are happening in my life, things I would like to see generate some discussion, and funny videos of cats getting hurt.

I may decide to create a blog specially targeted at one topic in the future, but for now a more general log of my life seems to make the most sense. Not to mention it takes an enormous load of pressure of my quasi-modian shoulders. I’ve attempted numerous blogs in the past focused on various niches, and they all died grisly deaths almost as soon as they were born. The only “success” I’ve ever had was with a blog that wasn’t tethered to any one subject.

All this having been said, the topics that are likely to pop up on here include, but are not limited to: film music, books, faith, my wife, food, infections on my big toe, and writing.

I hope that these topics—or at least my esoteric handling of them—will be of interest to at least a few people.

Here’s hoping this wild ride doesn’t come to a grinding halt after three posts. Onwards and upwards!