There isn't really anything that wrecks my workday more effectively than playing on a bad reed.
For a while, you try to excuse the sounds that come out, or explain them away by blaming yourself. My teacher always hated when his students blamed their reeds for their problems, so a part of me always channels him then-- stop making excuses!! Learn to play well on bad reeds!
Which of course prompts an inner dialogue of shame and self-loathing, if you're me. For days I can stare at my bassoon with absolutely no enthusiasm, dreading the time I've scheduled for practicing, making my flatmate miserable with my moroseness. I resent that stupid pile of firewood and scour the internet for get-rich-quick schemes that would let me escape the life I've chosen for myself.
And then, if I'm lucky, I'll soon notice what an idiot I'm being.
Why on earth should I learn to play well on bad reeds, when I know I can make good ones?
At this point I pick up my trusty little hammer (it has a floral pattern on it, it's adorable), and bash the offending reed to bits. What I need is more time at my reed desk-- what I don't need is to be wasting time practicing on reeds that won't settle. (Don't settle for reeds that won't settle! If that weren't bad writing, it would be my new motto.)
So now the cane is soaking.
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