A few years ago I was chatting with a luthier about various resources for learning string instruments. I forget what prompted it, but he commented, "You never practice as hard as you do in high school."

This is, in my experience, not true. I get it: you have more time in high school, and it feels as though these skills might turn out to define you. (In truth there is no time limit on when or how you define yourself. But teenage intensity is real and urgent.) I did practice some things—vocal music, writing—really hard in high school. But I had my first guitar then, the Gibson LG0 that my mom's friend sold me at a yard sale, and I had absolutely no clue what to do with it.

It took years, in fact, before I knew enough of both guitar and music that I could work effectively on that instrument. Several of my most intense stretches of practice have been relatively recent; they've come on arts residencies that afforded time for hours of daily woodshedding. And I don't feel as though these parts of my work are behind me. The more I learn, the more aware I am of how much I want to do.

My first experience with deep guitar practice was when I took Charles Kim's theory/composition courses. Our main textbook was a huge Hal Leonard compilation of Beatles songs. I played through in alphabetical order, gradually getting my hands used to the chord shapes and unraveling the music I'd grown up singing along with. At about the same time, my friend Jesse was running the weekly open mic at the Holiday Club; I started going with a handful of buddies. I had written and arranged songs before—I was in college a cappella, as well as a folk duo that I hope came off as charmingly lo-fi—but things changed when I was playing for the same people every week. I grew impatient with the limitations of my repertoire and my playing. So I had to write new songs, and I had to practice. 

I should note that there's a distinction between practicing instrumental technique and practicing to learn repertoire. The best practice, for me, combines the two. I can't always apply what I learn from Hanon-style scales and drills, but if I learn a pattern from digging deep into a song, it stays with me. (Simon Callow says much the same thing in Being an Actor: Only the lessons of performance stick. That's not a direct quote, because I seem to have left my copy at the old house. But it's the idea.)

"Half" was a turning point for both songwriting and play. (I think it and "Grace" are the only songs from that era that I've kept and recorded with the Baguettes.) I hadn't done much fingerpicking before, and I really didn't want to mess it up in front of a crowd of musicians. Plus, I liked the song; I wanted to keep singing it; I kept discovering stuff as I worked. I practiced until the tip of my right middle finger, rasping against the steel strings, developed a large, nipple-like blood blister. 

Then I kept playing.

The Blister Test has become my shorthand for whether a song demands that sort of compulsive play. It doesn't mean a literal blister in every case, thank goodness (though both the Gibson and the Telecaster have now been baptized in blood). But if I don't want to keep playing a new song, something's wrong with it.

I sometimes wish I had a better vocabulary of rhetoric. I nerd out very hard over nomenclature and grammar; there is a reason I'm in a band with Charlie, who once drafted a song called "I'm Like a Simile, You're a Metaphor," and Zach, who introduced us all to the concept of pataphor during a rehearsal.

This week a favorite lyric glided into my thoughts: "I'm not expecting that I'll end up with you just because I need to / I shouldn't count on having air around me just because I breathe." That's from the Loud Family's complicated meditation "Not Expecting Both Contempo and Classique," a song that also namechecks "the full devouring will of Aubrey Beardsley in his grave"; there is, as the kids say, a lot to unpack there.

It's been long enough since I first heard the song that I can no longer remember which heartbreak it evoked then. (I've got a guess or two, but on the whole it's a relief to know that I could forget.) I would have been in college—which is when I was most likely to know the name of the device Scott Miller used in that pair of lines. But I don't think I did know then, and it's driving me to distraction now. It's sort of—analogy by juxtaposition? It's not exactly an indirect metaphor (which omits the thing compared), and it's not just plain juxtaposition (which seems, in most examples I can find, to operate more like Shakespearean antithesis, creating contrast by adjacency). Thomas suggested "extrapolative analogy," which I think is more commonly applied in situations of logical fallacy, though I might have to get a JSTOR subscription to know for sure. 

​The efforts to figure it out have led me to some unexpected places, including discussions of programming language and math and whatever this is. I even dug into an old comp lit text, A Dictionary of Narratology (which at least reminded me that, as much as I like rhetoric, I'm glad not to be thinking about lit theory all day).

It's all beside the point of the song, of course. Any song has to work on its own terms, not by ticking a certain number of literary boxes; a rhetorical device can succeed without writer or audience knowing what it's called. But I really like knowing the names for things, and I wish I could figure this out.