Now that I am actively thinking and writing about imagination, I believe I’m starting to figure it out for myself. I’m happy to share my little epiphanies; doing so helps to clarify my thoughts and to bring about the next evolutionary step. Please don’t think I consider myself to be an “expert,” masterfully teaching you to “do what I do”; I am a learner like you, offering to take you with me on my journey to what I wish I could do and am actively working toward. I like to think that lots of folks are listening intently, and are eagerly awaiting each exciting report of my journey; in the final analysis though, it only really matters if I learn something (and I do!).
Anyway: I have a tendency to berate myself, and to talk about not having an imagination; if I truly don’t have any, it’s because I have convinced myself I don’t! That of course is the crux of the problem. We each have our own unique gifts; I believe I am finding mine in being able to #1, figure out the mechanics of musical things, and #2, figure out how to explain it to others. I don’t currently have the ability to just play without concern for error (not exactly conducive to creative improvisation!), and who knows, I may never develop it, but: I realize that the patterns I’m inventing (using scales and arpeggios) sound pretty cool and do serve a valuable purpose! That is my imagination at work.
I am quite shy at my core; I have no problem getting in front of an audience and playing what I know and have prepared, but do have trouble showing what I am truly capable of doing out of fear of making mistakes. You really should hear what I play when I know nobody is listening! On top of the shyness, my creative outbursts happen in small increments (before my conscious mind regains its precious control)—not yet enough to put together a coherent, intelligent jazz solo (improvised or not). But, those outbursts do constitute what I think is some pretty cool stuff. Again, that is my imagination at work.
Being inspired by what I hear other musicians playing (and adjusted for what is possible on the plectrum banjo), I know the limitations of it; this is not earth-shattering stuff! It is simply solid, good-sounding music. Most importantly, they are my own unique creations; it may end up being a copy of someone else after all is said and done, but that would be sheer coincidence—not done on purpose. In offering the fruits of my imagination in the form of lessons (and eventually a book), I realize that I am allowing others to copy my stuff. The real goal is simply to goad your imagination into work; I offer mine as one possible framework for your original ideas.
I’ve often lamented “if only I could just play what I hear in my head”; well, by learning to read and write music (and thus to understand music theory), I have figured out how to put those inner voices into a reproducible format, capturing them for eternity, and making them learnable by me (and hopefully others). In a sense, I’m simply “transcribing” the music in my head, then turning them into exercises. So, I am—quite literally—“learning to play what I hear.” The final step will be to have the courage to play those pre-learned patterns in public—and then eventually, to let go and let my fingers play what my mind hears in real-time. Maybe now that I’ve realized I do