Math is Magic đź’«
or something like that…
I attended a money mind-set workshop for women last quarter. It was illuminating. Not because I came away with a new $100K attitude, but because in her passion, the host began to cry as she spoke about the magic of math. The last time I cried about math it was in the twelve grade, and it was not because of magic, it was because I was sure I was stupid and it had been abusive of my teacher to insist I could handle the university track.
“50% in advanced mathematics is better than 90% in general.”
Well, I call foul, sir! (I came out with a 54% — the lowest grade of my educational career —and I still harbour uncomfortable feelings for the teacher who, while he meant well, hurt my self-esteem.)
As an adult I have come to terms with the fact that math is essential. I use it almost every day, both in my personal life and in business. It’s unavoidable, and with all the tools available today, it’s not too overwhelming… generally.
Still, music is the only math I am truly confident in. Yes, to your ear, music is maybe just an expression of emotion and something to match any particular feeling on any particular day; but,at its core, music is nothing more than an equation of thirteen numbers (notes). Like math, it is an answer to something. And like math, it is always searching for more truth. Unlike high school math it is a place I can sit, a place where I’m not afraid to toss in some honky-tonk bravado or a wild scale just because I feel like it. And even though Bon Jovi makes me play “Bed of Roses” in B-flat, it still makes sense.
Because math.
Confidence in music, just like confidence in math, is not something I was born with. It’s something I learned through diligent practice (read: my mother reminding/pushing/insisting).
I began piano lessons as a semi-eager 8-year old. Every year I would compete in the Royal Conservatory of Music Festival which is a trauma-inducing experience where-in little girls in pretty dresses and little boys in collared shirts and ties, sit in a stiff line until they are called upon, approach a piano while a room of dead-silent eyeballs bore into their back, play a piece by memory, bow, return to the death-bench, and then await the decision of the panel of stern judges.
(Note: In talking through this memory with my mother, she remembers the judges as being very kind. She’s probably right, but this is my story, and within the dark cloud where this memory sits, I see every judge as Agatha Trunchbull from Roald Dahl’s Matilda.)
Horror.
For me, it went one of two ways. I either took first place, or I came dead last. (Emphasis on the dead.) There was no in between.
My middle school was in the old Durham high school building (the coolest building in town and a devastating blow when it was torn down years later). In an office separating the two fifth grade classrooms, an old upright piano stood in place of a desk. I was brilliantly cocky about my piece for the festival that year, telling my piano-playing friends that I knew I’d get first place. (You know me, always humble…) Bradly and Iain were both brilliant piano players. Bradly had stubby fingers. Iain had long, slender fingers. I landed somewhere in the middle. Bradly was a passionate player, leaning his whole body in. Iain was technical and precise which made the extra vowel in his name seem like it didn’t match his personality. I just wanted to make up my own versions. They pulled me into the piano office. “Okay, show us!”
When I say I knew that piece backwards and forwards, I’m not exaggerating. (Okay, maybe a little bit. Obviously, I didn’t know it backwards. But I bet I could’ve played it with my eyes closed.) I knew it so well. I knew every note, every ritardando, every triplet (if you’re a piano player too, you just read that as trip-o-let.)
“Show us!” they said.
I sat at the piano. I placed my semi-stubby fingers so that my hands bookeneded middle C. I played the first four bars flawlessly. And then I hit a wall. I started again. Four bars. The song was gone. It had fallen right out of my head.
The boys stood behind me, one at each shoulder.
“You lost it,” one said. I don’t remember a mocking tone to that voice. They knew the pressure of Festival too. “It’ll come back,” the other said.
Would it?
I told my mom what had happened as we drove to the festival location. “Alanna, you know that song. You have practised and practised. You know it so well.” And I really did. “You’ll see. It will come back again as soon as you sit down.”
I was in the middle of the bench between boys and girls who were twisting their nervous fingers together. I tried to play my song on my thigh. Four bars. I tried to hear the melody in my mind. Four bars.
Children approached the piano and played their pieces beautifully.
I approached the piano, the dress my mother sewed for me brushing my knees. The Sunday school barrettes suddenly heavy in my hair.
I sat and placed my fingers. I know this, I know this, I know this. I began. Four bars. A wall. I stopped. Deep breath. I know this, I know this, I know this. I tried again. The cycle repeated. I was in purgatory.
This was one of those moments when time stands still. My whole body was hot and cold at the same time. I wanted to cry, but I was so frozen I couldn’t even do that.
I don’t know how many times I restarted that piece. It was my personal Groundhog Day, only instead of getting the joy of twenty-four hours, I was cursed to repeat four terrifying bars for all of eternity.
In that dead-silent room where I knew everyone was cringing with discomfort and wishing the pathetic little girl at the piano would just disappear so they could get back to watching proficient pianists perform, I died a little bit.
It didn’t matter how pretty my dress was or how shiny my church shoes were or how many times I had practised that stupid song. In that moment I was nothing but a creature to stir up pity in others who had no way to rescue me.
Finally, a judge leaned into compassion and brought me the sheet music. She set it on the perfectly polished ledge. “Maybe this will help,” she said, her face laced with communal embarrassment and a hint of condescension.
She was a chagrined math teacher finally allowing me to use a calculator.
Memorization is one of the marks of good piano playing, according the festival rules. I was brought up under the Suzuki method, which is all about playing by ear. Each time I graduated to a new level, my music book came with a cassette tape with each of the songs. I was to listen and replicate. Though very little emphasis was placed on the sheet music, it’s where I felt most at home. I didn’t feel impressed by myself when I could bang out a song for memory. I loved the comfort of language dancing on the page. I took pride in understanding the notes and the symbols and then adding my own touch, much to the annoyance of my piano teacher.
Mrs. Brown was a stern, (mostly) patient teacher, but I lost some respect for her when she told me I needed to cut my nails even though hers were long and click-click-clicked the keys every time she played a stanza for me to mimic. Still, I knew she would be so disappointed when she heard of this performance (or lack there of).
Having the sheet music appear before me was like being released from prison. All I needed was the tool designed to support me. This was the spoon I would use to dig a tunnel out of my cell.
Years later, The Matrix would tell me “there is no spoon,” but I never believed it. There is a spoon and I needed it.
With that sheet music, I played my festival piece flawlessly. And I took last place.
I learned a few lessons that day.
Cocky doesn’t win.
Memorization is not the measure of my skill (no matter what the grown ups thought).
I hate competition.
The piano does not have to be a precise tool. I can use it to answer my own questions in my own way, and in the end, it’s all still music.
I still competed in festivals. I even took first place several times after that showing. But the shadow of that embarrassment accompanied me. There was little joy in lessons. I wanted to be free. I wanted to tell my own story.
As I leaned into my own style, I requested a departure from Suzuki books. I wanted to learn the theme song from The Phantom of the Opera. Playing that song was the great joy of my time in formal lessons. I felt like a star when I approached the grand piano at my last recital, laid out the pages I had taped together so that they spanned the entire length of the instrument, and began to play — following the notes, but adding my own dramatic flair. Playing notes that weren’t there (gasp!) and editing it in such a way to tell the story as I saw it. In some ways, it was bratty. In some ways, it was disrespectful to my teacher. But the audience still applauded — not because I was perfect, but because I gave them a song.
I approach my own writing now in much the same way. Yes, there are rules, but they don’t really matter. They don’t serve me or my story. When I obsess over the “shoulds” I become a gatekeeper to my own creativity. Rule following, for me, is a wicked form of self-sabotage.
My approach is as follows: tell the story that I want to tell.
I don’t think about the industry. I don’t look at trends. I have never once opened TikTok to learn what I ought to be doing to find success as an author. I write for the pure joy of pouring something out. I write for the magic of seeing something appear where nothing existed before.
I embrace this attitude within my business too. Chicken House Press is not looking for trends. I am looking for heart. I am looking for the one who sees the rules, respects them, but then dances to their own rhythm in 12 point font for the sheer joy of it.
During that money-mindset seminar, I was challenged to set (realistic) goals. You guys, I did math! A lot of it. And it was scary and uncomfortable. And exciting. There is much to consider as a solopreneur and one of the biggest things I didn’t give enough attention to is my time budget. (Maybe because it’s one of those calculator buttons that I never really understood the function of and not enough people are talking about it)
Approaching my needs and wants for Chicken House Press through the lens of an honest time budget, I have discovered my next steps — most importantly, that CHP is fully booked for 2024.
That being said, my submission form will be opening on Friday the 13th (because submitting a manuscript is vulnerable and scary) and I will be actively seeking SIX new projects for publication in 2025.
I am only interested in manuscripts that are complete and polished to the point that you, the author, are sick of it. I want heart. I want diversity. I need to have an emotional reaction — whether that’s laughter, tears, anger, or fear — I want to feel something.
Can’t wait until 2025? The service-based publishing model will still be open to 2024 projects under the Alanna Rusnak Publishing imprint. This requires a financial investment on your part, but it has a faster turn-over and leaves much more creative-control in your hands.
If you want more information about either of these models follow the links above or book a free 15 minute chat to talk through your burning questions and find out which model is best for you and your book.
Publishing is math. Your manuscript is a symphony. Maybe it’s time for us to make some music together.
Proof that my piano lessons still support my work today! This is a shot from in the Chicken House last weekend when I use doing some recording for the marketing of my next book. Can’t wait to share all that with you all down the line!
