Like brushing your teeth

Instead of doing today’s work, I want to throw down my parasol and lounge dramatically upon the grass. (John Singer Sargent, c. 1884)

When I was a music teacher, I had to present some counterintuitive ideas to parents who wanted to instill a love of music in their children.

Rather than advocating for a romantic, passionate affair with the instrument, I took a much cooler tone.

I suggested that practicing music is just like brushing our teeth. We do it whether we want to or not, and then it's done.

There are no broader implications (besides oral hygiene, of course). It's not about our identity ("Am I really the kind of person who brushes my teeth?"). There's no question of worthiness ("Who am I to take the time to brush my teeth?") and there's no promise of fame and fortune.

The teeth get brushed, period. There's no option to bow out. There's no room for personal preference or not feeling up to it. We just do the thing.

If a student approaches music this way—a short daily practice with no drama, no nonsense, no surprises, and no alternatives—they'll learn to play.

The practice session should be shorter than the student can handle, a length of time that can gradually increase along with the student's skills. Then it's done, and we're on to the next activity.

Depending on the student to practice when they feel a deep stirring in their soul for the magic of music-making and a sense of oneness with the instrument—this will yield little. Not even the adult music students can depend on this. Instead, we make the practice part of the student's routine. It's not cruel—at least, not any crueler than forced dental care.

I have learned to treat writing the same way. Writing happens every day with low stakes and low expectations, whether I want to or not. The writing is just what I do. It's like brushing my teeth. I write, and then it's done.

Some projects require a period of focus on a particular activity (for instance, studying every day for a few months). When we can undertake that activity in the same spirit as brushing our teeth—"this is just what we do"—it's a lot more likely to happen.

It's an irony of life that the person who desperately needs an extra $10,000 in the next thirty days is less likely to get it than the person who doesn't need it at all. The person who wants more than anything to get in shape has a much harder time going to the gym than the muscular person who could afford to skip a day but doesn't. As we build routines, we build momentum, and we eventually become the person we had been dreaming of being. By the time we achieve the desired result, we take it for granted.

When we start out, on the other hand, it all seems so daunting. The early stage of building a routine feels horrible. We thrash around and think we're trying, but we're not actually trying. We're just thinking about trying. We're wasting a lot of energy when we could be typing or playing or painting or sending out those five inquiries per day.

We have to adopt the mindset of the person who is already successful—the wealthy person who has clever ways to acquire another five-figure sum or the bodybuilder who can't wait to get in the day's reps. Instead of questioning the work at hand, they do it. If we can allow ourselves to sit down and do the work—to shoot for 200 words or seven minutes or one outbound message—we're on the other side before we know it. This success makes it easier to do it the next time. Our initial investment compounds.

Ironically, there are tired, cranky children in the world throwing temper tantrums to protest the injustice of having to brush their teeth. Even something so simple and quotidian can become fraught. There's no solution but to wait out the temper tantrum and get the teeth brushed anyway, however perfunctorily.

We can do the same thing with whatever creative project we're making into a bigger thing that it is. No matter how heavy and overwhelming it's gotten in our minds, we can treat it like brushing our teeth. We can take the necessary action, check it off our list, and move on. There's no magic, no drama, and no excuses. And yet, this practice will transform us.