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.
