Billy Strings Teaches you how to write.

I take a lot of my writing cues from guitar playing.

Whenever interviewed, guitar players have a funny tendency to play off that they know nothing technical about their craft, yet the moment they begin to speak about their “tricks of the trade,” they often reveal a knowledge base in music theory that’s deeper than they would ever have let slip.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” very quickly dissolves into, “After the bridge we modulate into Dorian, which is cool because with the two chord as the new tonic it changes the whole tonal dynamic.”

No theory at all.

But that’s not my point for this article.

In the clip below, bluegrass savant/psychedelic rocker Billy strings speaks about the difference between playing and practicing:

He speaks about the (albeit luxurious) dilemma he’s locked in where he spends so many days out of a year on the road playing his own songs, yet doesn’t have enough free time to himself to sit down and practice new techniques.

“Do you know how many kids there are playing in their bedrooms would give their leg to be out on the road playing right now?”

“Yea, but I wanna practice.”

His point is: by playing gig after gig, you may tighten your technique in the areas you’re good at, but you’re not adding any new elements into the mix. You’re getting better at playing, but you’re not getting “Better.”

In the same clip he talks about how on the rare occasions where he does get to practice: he’s observed that new technique finds its way into the writing long before it becomes an integrated element of your playing.

I’ve definitely noticed this in my own guitar playing. I’ll learn a scale that uses an obscure sound and right away I’ll build riffs around that novel detail. But when improvising with a band, I have to actively seek out moments where that new wrinkle works—which usually end up sounding contrived— because I haven’t yet discovered where all the interconnecting links are and therefore don’t “find” it as readily as my more integrated vocabulary of techniques.

The same principle applies to writing.

I go through phases where I’m hung up on a certain technique i.e. Parataxis or Polysyndeton, and for a period I’ll “catch” the voice that these techniques lend themselves to. Suddenly I’ll use a lot of “and” rather than commas. My sentences will rattle off not sequiturs, that aren’t quite non sequiturs for paragraphs on end. I’ll write in a manner that sounds like budget Hemingway and for stretches I might even convince myself that I’ve broken new ground as a writer.

But a week later when that new toy is no longer front of mind, I’ll revert to my ordinary style and sound more like myself.

Which might seem like wasted time short term, but across a longer time scale, this is the arc that a new technique must take.

This latter stage where you’re no longer noticing the technique, is in fact closer to an integrated version of it than the first. Because, though its nice to parrot him here and there, I’m not Hemingway (if you didn’t notice).

Techniques like this are coriander in your dish. When you’ve put them in, your dinner guests really know you’ve put them in.

Of course, there’s nuance to this. If you forget about your new pet technique entirely and don’t carve out any time to actively think about it after its lost its shine, it will fail to catch hold of you and will likely disappear completely into the background. That’s why gaps between active practice can’t be left for too long.

But if you revisit a given technique enough, then let yourself forget it, though don’t forget it completely, it will become a condiment on your benchtop. Needed when needed.

That’s how you get better. According to Billy Strings.

If you’re not familiar with his music, watch the video below. He’s the man: