Been writing music for the first time in
years. Well, writing lyrics and arranging songs from snatches of music sent to
me by a genius I know (the internet, the artist’s friend).
But I’m not a musician.
That’s not a title I’ve earned. And I have
too many friends who have earned it;
who’ve sweated for years, working crappy day jobs and burning their nights
pursuing the dream; working the muso’s version of a day job, playing stuff they
can’t stand in hope they can one day be paid to play what they love; playing
elevator music to the drunk or uninterested in restaurants, museums and auction
rooms; never giving up, always hustling.
No, I’m not a musician. I’m a guy who plays
music.
I am a writer, though. A poet. Those, I’ve
earned.
For far too long I lived a life far uglier
than it should have been – but it was never pointless, never futile.
Through it all, I maintained a habit formed
as a teenager. I carried a notebook, and I wrote
it down. Impressions, conversations, descriptions – even with no aim in
mind, you write it.
And, it turns out, you can scribble your way
to sanity. To perspective. To a direction. Things come together.
Things come together.
But you have to do it.
Whether you’re an artist or an entrepreneur,
a tradesman, a salesperson or an astronaut; whether it’s work or family,
friendship or love, the world will cut you quite a bit of slack to get your
shit together. Sometimes the world will even help.
But the world has to see you doing it.
Think about it, certainly. Talk about it too,
if that helps, or don’t. But do it.
You have to pay your dues.
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