Music is the yin to the yang of my writing. What's yours?

By Caitlin Rother

I’ve been playing the piano since I was seven, when I started taking lessons. I always hated to practice, so I rarely played between lessons, which really didn’t help me improve much.

The day I stopped taking lessons at age 14 was the day I started to practice regularly, so much so that, not surprisingly, my playing improved dramatically. That said, there was often the abruptly closed door when I played a wrong note or some nasty noise from the other room, where my father was sitting in his chair, so that was not a confidence-builder. Coupled with my tendency toward perfectionism, this made for a horrible case of stage fright when the recital dates came around, which, thankfully, was not very often.

I also could not seem to memorize music. I’ve always been a very good sight-reader, meaning that I could play a piece pretty well the first time someone put the sheet music in front of me. But without the sheet music, my brain just froze, so the music (and music stand) became a crutch. That was still the case with singing as well until recently: I could remember the words if I sang along to the radio or a live band, but if I had to perform them, I just blanked. Today, I’ve got a short repertoire of songs I can sing without music, but only the ones that don’t require me to play piano at the same time. I also require sheet music to play classical pieces, such as “Passapied” by Debussy, which is a very complicated piece that took me four months to master. After that, it was a matter of muscle memory.

For much of my life, I played alone, and mostly classical music. That’s mostly what my father listened to when I was growing up, and although he also listened to jazz and Broadway musicals, I didn’t really try to play those myself until much later. I don’t really remember who chose my piano music, but it may have been my music teachers. Over time that changed, and I picked my own music, but it was still mostly classical, even though that was never my listening choice when I turned on the radio or bought an album.

I’ve always loved singing along to the radio, either alone or with one of my friends, but never in front of people except when I sang with the chorus at school. I don’t recall many performances, but I didn’t feel self-conscious when I sang as part of a group. And the harmony was always divine.

When I went away to college, I continued to play the piano in a practice room if I could find one. The law dorm at UC Berkeley, where I lived during my senior year, had an awesome concert grand, which I played a lot. And after graduation, although I auditioned for and made the glee club with my roommate, I never followed up. No one ever said, “oh, you have a nice voice,” they said they wanted me because I could sight-read, and therefore they thought I could sight-sing. So, I just remained a closet shower-and-car singer. While I was dancing and singing at a nightclub, no one could hear me either. I went to quite a few concerts over the years, I’ve dated my share of musicians, and I’ve always had a thing for lead singers, including my current partner of 13 years.

I had a breakthrough in 1999, the year that my late husband killed himself, when I treated myself to the 10-day Breadloaf writing conference in Vermont. You had to submit writing samples and be accepted, so I felt pretty good about that, because at that point, the only writing I’d ever published were news and feature stories for the newspapers where I worked for 19 years as an investigative reporter. Publishing a book was still a pipedream that didn’t come true until 2005.

When I got to Middlebury College, which hosts Breadloaf, I learned that an a capella group practiced every day at lunchtime and would perform a few times for the rest of the conference. It was then that I first realized how much singing and writing went together, but more importantly, how much I enjoyed singing with a group. It was very healing and gave me a creative burst of inspiration. They asked me to sing as a tenor, when in fact I’m really a soprano, and, as I later learned in therapy, singing too low could cause me to injure my voice. Not seriously, but repeatedly. It also didn’t help when a gastroenterologist tore a hole in my esophagus during my last endoscopy, right next to my nerve.

I’ve learned that as I continue to churn out books, sitting alone in a room at my computer, singing and playing music have become increasingly important not only to my mental health, but also to my physical health, because they go hand in hand. I just need to pace myself, or I overuse and damage the muscles. Typing every day, first at the newspapers where I used to type my notes as I interviewed people or covered meetings from my office, and then later at home writing books, takes its toll. I’ve always typed fast, and after long hours of interrupted writing in the zone (which I’ve since learned not to do), I’ve had to battle bouts of chronic pain in my arms, wrists, back and neck. Heat, ice, and massage, along with swimming, walking, and rest, are good treatment. During those periods, I had to stay off the piano, so what really got me through the pain was singing.

When I went through an 18-month period of chronic pain almost 20 years go, I healed myself over the course of many nights when I stood alone in my living room, singing—with Linda Ronstadt on her double-album of jazz standards in particular. I also sang along with Nora Jones in the shower, KD Lang, Bonnie Raitt, and others. The muscle spasms and the pain and the angst that went along with them faded away during those sessions. But I never sang in front of anyone. This was always a “me” thing, and when I was sad, sometimes my voice would break during a sad song like Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah.” The tears helped as well, because I would forget the pain and the fear that it would never stop, both of which caused stress and anxiety.

The career I’ve chosen—whether it was writing for the newspaper or writing books—can cause its own share of stress and anxiety. Books don’t pay all that much or that regularly, which makes it a highly speculative job. But it’s what I do and is pretty much the only thing I know how to do and like to do, and if I don’t do it, I don’t feel like myself, so this is my lot in life. I’ve also learned that music needs to be a regular part of that life or it feels like something is missing.

My partner, Géza Keller, started encouraging me to sing with him in public after we started dating 13 years ago. He’s been singing and playing guitar in bands for most of his life, and he is a performer at heart. I took the long road to come around to that, but I am, in essence, more of an introvert, so it took me a while to come to enjoy performing, and even now the anxiety precursory to playing well takes it out of me. Over time, I’ve also learned how to sing and play piano at the same time, which was a skill that evaded me for most of my life. It took years of practice—knocking down the voice in my head that told me I couldn’t do that, and also forming new neural pathways—before I could manage it.

My singing debut was at Geza’s college reunion in Socorro, somewhere around 2013. Another breakthrough. And I’ve had many since then. Honestly, it’s been a journey of self-growth and discovery.

Unfortunately, due to a combination of factors—years of acid reflux, repeatedly injuring my voice, and sadly, aging, all of which were exacerbated by the years of isolation during COVID, when I went days without talking to anyone and when I did only for short bursts—I have had to accept that I have limited capabilities with my voice. I no longer can drink caffeine or alcohol on a day when I want to talk for an extended period, let alone sing, and in fact, I use those substances sparingly even when I don’t have a public appearance, a podcast interview, or want to practice my singing.

Stubborn and determined as I am, I’ve taken voice lessons and had numerous sessions with a voice therapist to learn how to sing and talk differently. At my therapist’s suggestion, I no longer sing songs that require me to belt out the words. I choose ballads or slower, more soulful tunes. I also try to sing duets with Géza or backup, rather than singing the lead, so I can last longer. After the hole in my throat episode, I’ve had to take medication for this issue too. But no matter how much I try and I train, I’m still limited, although not as much as I would be if I didn’t keep up the training. I’m also still very determined, because, well, singing makes me happy.

All this to say that my weekly rehearsal with our jazzy bluesy trio, In the Lounge, and the occasional gig out in public, keep me going. In addition to our trio, I also play rock’n’roll with the SPIE Jam, a group of optics professionals several times a year at their trade shows. I’ve come a long way from the closet singer and pianist who never wanted to play or sing in front of anyone. I now look forward to performing, and although I still get a bit anxious, it’s not as much as before. It’s pretty damn fun.

Music has always been a big part of my life, but all these years later, what I really regret is that I didn’t come to these realizations sooner. Because I’m a decent pianist, that was always the focus. No one ever suggested or encouraged me to sing more or to take singing lessons, so I could learn how to sing and breathe properly. It doesn’t do much good to look back with regret, I just wish I’d learned earlier in life how much singing and playing music would be such a healing and regenerative power for me. But it is what it is, and at least I can enjoy it while I’m still on this side of the grass.

Music recharges my creativity, it brings me joy. Playing with other musicians has its difficulties for someone like me who is sensitive to loud noise and can easily get overstimulated, but I’ve learned that it will generally be okay as long as I know my part and put in an earplug or two. Because when we all play together, it’s great for the spirit. It brings me a sense of community, not just because the music sounds good, but because I’m helping to create it and I enjoy watching the audience enjoy it too.

During one recent performance, I felt truly in command of my instrument—which is a Boston baby grand piano at home, and an electronic Yamaha keyboard when we play out in public—and that feels great too, especially when I get the microphone in the right place and can hear myself sing and play along with everyone else.

They say to follow your bliss. Well, writing books takes me there, and so does playing music. But I’ve found that doing both simultaneously feeds the other in quite a magical symbiotic way.