Text A: an original contemporary personal-account-style practice extract.

Three beanbags struck the carpet in three different places. One rolled beneath the chair; another landed in my tea. I picked them up without explaining myself to anyone. That was the chief advantage of practising alone: failure made a soft sound and required no apology.

With the door closed, I could repeat one awkward throw for as long as I needed. I tried standing closer to the wall, slowing the movement and beginning with my weaker hand. Some attempts were so unsuccessful that they became useful. Nobody was waiting for the finished trick, so I could take it apart and discover which small action caused the rest to collapse. Privacy gave me room to be curious rather than impressive.

Solitude has its limits. When I eventually showed a friend, she noticed that I was lifting one shoulder each time I threw. I had practised the mistake as faithfully as the skill. Even so, I was glad that most of the learning had happened unwatched. The first time all three beanbags completed their pattern, there was no audience and no applause. I caught them, stood still for a moment and began again. The achievement felt complete before anybody else knew about it.

Text B: an original contemporary group-rehearsal-style practice extract.

The first beat travelled through the floor before I was ready for it. Twelve drums answered, and mine arrived late. In my bedroom, a mistake could be disguised by starting again. In the rehearsal room, it remained in the air long enough for everyone, including me, to hear it.

Nobody stopped to deliver a lesson. The player opposite exaggerated the movement of her hands; the person beside me quietly counted the spaces between beats. When I rushed, the group held its pace instead of following me. Their steadiness revealed more than criticism would have done. I began to understand that keeping time was not simply a private test of accuracy. It meant noticing what other people were doing and adjusting without losing confidence.

Practising alone still matters. At home, I can repeat a difficult pattern on a cushion without making twelve people endure it. Yet the pattern only becomes music when it meets other patterns and has to make room for them. Near the end of the rehearsal, the leader raised one hand. We finished together, and the sudden silence was as exact as the final beat. I had contributed no solo and mastered no spectacular technique. What I had learned was how to arrive at the same moment as everyone else.