That First Publishing Rush

Some milestones occur quietly for you, but this one didn’t. When I first saw the email saying “accepted for publication,” I felt that rush. It was the same kind of adrenaline you get when you’re suddenly invited to perform at a major gig or festival. It wasn’t just a pat on the back; it was a flood. Within nine months, I had nine outputs in front of me: three substantial journal articles, along with essays, reflections, and archived practitioner work. For someone who values efficiency, that pace was both astonishing and addictive.

I know I might sound a little unhinged, and maybe I am. I’ve never been able to stay still. Multi-instrumentalist, multi-genre, and now apparently multi-article. When I first started publishing, it felt like the same energy as when I realised I could master different instruments or explore various styles: a sense that new paths were opening faster than I could sprint along them. Once the ideas started flowing, it was impossible to stop. Every gig or class seemed to spark a new angle worth developing into something larger.

Of course, not all of it was pleasurable. Formatting for publishing was particularly painful. Citations, tables, margins, strange journal templates that refuse to align. Reviewers? Fine. The grind? Manageable. But what I truly enjoyed was systems thinking. That feeling of creating something that nobody else had quite written yet: one of the first academic approaches to bass tone, a framework for keyboard patch literacy in Asian-pop contexts, entire ways of reframing rhythm pedagogy for creative health. It wasn’t about filling space; it was about connecting dots across performance, teaching, and scholarship.

That’s why publishing feels distinct. Fellowships, diplomas, and teaching milestones have all been significant, but they’re more like qualifications or markers. Publishing feels like a movement into the real-world academic arena. I would say it was just like the moment one stops doing “student gigs” and starts being called for professional ones. This is where I sense the scholar-practitioner identity taking shape. I’m not just an educator who performs or a performer who teaches. I am attempting to build the most visionary hybrid lane, a space that belongs to both and neither, one I take seriously.

So yes, the thrill is real. But I’m not pursuing the high just for its own sake. I’m chasing what occurs when rhythm pedagogy, creative health, and curriculum design begin appearing in the places that influence conversations globally. I’ve always been dedicated to artistry and education; publishing is simply the next chapter in that commitment. It’s not about stacking DOIs on a CV. It’s about ensuring that the things I’ve lived and taught contribute to the larger picture of music education. That is a stage worth showing up for.